


The Air Went Out

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Eskel (The Witcher), Alpha Jaskier | Dandelion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Banter, Blood and Injury, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Buffskier Rights!, Courting Jewellery, Courting Rituals, Cuddling & Snuggling, Essi is Jaskier's sister, Face-Sitting, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage, Infertility, Jaskier is an equal opportunity alpha, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Kissing, Knotting, Love at First Sight, M/M, Male omegas have a vulva and a penis, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Consensual Underage Sex, Nobility, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oral Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Running Away, Sassy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scenting, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow burn for my standards anyway, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, Switch Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Switch Jaskier | Dandelion, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vesemir ships it, and there was only one bed, awkward bathing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28238130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher BingoPrompt: A/B/O
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052879
Comments: 180
Kudos: 487





	1. Lettenhove

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every other Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two A/B/O WIPs at once? Sure, why not.

"You could at least _pretend_ to be interested in any of them," the countess says acidly, and Jaskier scoffs.

"Oh please, mother, not even I am that good an actor," he replies, just as meanly. "None of us are here by choice. This is a meat market and you know it as well as I do."

His mother turns her head to look at him, her blue eyes, so like his own, icy. As a child, this particular look used to scare him more than the raised voice of his father or the lashings his tutors bestowed upon him. This look speaks of the one thing any child dreads the most from their parent: disappointment.

Now though, at three-and-twenty and half a head taller than the countess, with an education of his own under his belt (one which he, against all odds and naysayers, excelled at), he does not fear his mother's disappointment any longer. He has outgrown the stifling provincialism of Lettenhove, and when this is all over and he has thoroughly refused all offers of marriage, he will pack his bags again and return to Oxenfurt and his art and his many lovers, and his parents can _shove it_.

"I don't expect a lot from you, Julian," and here he can't bite back the huff of incredulous laughter that statement provokes, "but I expect you to do this. You don't have to fall in love with any of them, you just need to pick one, put a ring on their finger and a baby in their belly and be done with it. Just do your duty," she hisses, directing her eyes forward again, "like the rest of us."

He wants to scream. Of course it would be his mother who would put the way his life is supposed to go into words in such a blunt, crass fashion. It doesn't matter what he wants. It doesn't matter what his prospective partner wants. All that matters is the family name, the line of succession. Fuck him and his desires.

Jaskier presses his lips together tightly as yet another minor noble, a baron or somesuch, presents his child, a terrified girl of barely fifteen who stares at her feet the entire time and gives clipped one word answers. The thought that these people expect him to force himself on this slip of a girl for _duty_ makes him sick to his stomach.

"I won't agree," he says quietly, and his mother stiffens. "I won't. You can't make me."

The smile on his mother's face is bitter, and tired. "That's where you're wrong, my dear."

He tunes out the seemingly endless line of noble omegas. They all smell either of fear - the young ones - or excitement born of ambition - the ones close to him in age or older - and it's making him queasy. The titles get shorter and shorter the longer things go on, until they're faced with landed gentry. One of these omegas is _thirteen_ , a lanky boy who seems to be nothing but elbows and knees and who appears to be staring at Jaskier's crotch with wide, fearful eyes the entire time he has to stand there. _Gods above_.

What happens next would surprise him much less than it does if he knew _why_ there are so many omegas there that evening. His parents, in their infinite wisdom, have seen fit to compel every omega of marriage age - which is a fancy way of saying 'with an established heat cycle' - to show up this evening, in the hope that at least one of them will catch their oldest son's eye. Safety in numbers and all that.

As it is, Jaskier doesn't know this, and so he is more than a little surprised when the current parent-child combination steps aside and he comes face to face with the most beautiful man he has ever seen. As a master of the seven liberal arts he may be prone to exaggeration but this time it's _true_.

And it _is_ a man, not some overgrown teenager barely out of the nursery, no. This is an _adult_. Jaskier is no wilting flower but next to this man, he feels oddly small. He's a few inches taller than Jaskier, definitely broader which is no small feat given Jaskier's alpha physique, and he's... rugged, for lack of a better word. Not unkempt, no, all of them have been brushed and primped within an inch of their life, obviously, but... there's a wildness to this man.

Jaskier thinks that if somebody doesn't say something soon, he's going to start openly panting.

"Vesemir of Kaer Morhen," the herald intones, and only then does Jaskier notice the older man, shorter and a little on the portly side but clearly strong and fit as well. There's faint recognition at the name but he can't place it. Both of them wear silver medallions around their necks that glint in the candlelight. "Introducing his ward, Geralt of Rivia."

The men bow to his parents. Geralt has hair the colour of milk and peculiar pale eyes that look almost yellow in the candlelight, and he's looking at a spot just to the right of Jaskier's shoulder. It takes Jaskier's brain an embarrassing amount of time to realise that Geralt is also an omega, something that seems absolutely ludicrous given the man's bulk.

Melitele's sweet perfumed thighs, he might be in love.

After tuning out all introductions until this point, it takes effort to listen, especially when faced with the _absurdly_ gorgeous man before him.

"We thank you humbly for inviting us," the man called Vesemir of Kaer Morhen says, and Jaskier is versed enough in political double speak to recognise the edge to his voice. This is not a man who is either humble or grateful for being invited. He has the same oddly coloured eyes as Geralt, he realises.

"And we receive you with gratitude," his father says, barely containing his disdain at these men that he so obviously considers below himself.

His mother, meanwhile, is openly staring at the omega, and Jaskier wants to throttle her a little. "Why is your hair like that," she asks, and Jaskier jerks forward as if to step between her and Geralt.

" _Mother_!" It's just a hiss, angry and embarrassed, and Geralt's eyes flick up to meet his gaze, for half a second.

Heat shoots through Jaskier's veins at the contact, and he's almost certain that Geralt's eyes widen the tiniest bit before he looks away again.

His father clears his throat. He looks like he swallowed a frog when he says, "Dearest, our guests are Witchers."

A hush falls around them. Jaskier can feel his heart in his throat as he, too, stares at the two men. Witchers! Impossible!

But now that he's actually _looking_ instead of making heart eyes like a boy with his first crush, he sees the scars. Vesemir has one on his chin, not very big. There are numerous ones on his hands. Geralt's hands are similarly marked, and now that Jaskier doesn't let himself be distracted by the otherworldly beauty of the man, he sees the facial scars, too. There's one on his right cheek, and on his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his chemise.

Jaskier wants to see how many more there are.

"Really?" Now his mother _sounds_ like she swallowed a frog, and Jaskier grits his teeth. "I thought Witchers were extinct."

"Not entirely, my lady. There's enough of us left to keep the darkness at bay a while longer yet." Gods, what Jaskier wouldn't give to pick Vesemir's brains some time. If what he has heard about Witchers is true - that they age slower than humans - there's no telling how old the man is. Jaskier could get more material for his songs than he would know what to do with.

"Well. It is lovely to meet the two of you," his mother says, and Jaskier wants to hide his face in his hands at her tone. He barely stifles his groan, and he can't stop his eyes from rolling at all.

When he looks back at the Witchers, he's almost sure that the corner of Geralt's mouth has twitched in what may have been a smile.

There are more potential mates, just a handful, but Jaskier doesn't see any of them. All he can concentrate on is that distinctive head of white hair, tucked away against a wall with Vesemir beside him. They talk quietly, and although they're too far away for him to be able to see Geralt's eyes, he can tell the omega is looking his way every now and then.

Finally - fucking _finally_ \- it's over and he is given the go ahead to go and mingle. His mother points out a young duchess, a pretty girl with lovely blond hair and a gentle smile. "Wide hips on that one," she says with an expression one might wear when appraising a horse. Jaskier ignores the girl, pretty as she may be, and makes his way straight towards the two Witchers.

What can he say, subtlety has never been his strong suit.

Vesemir smiles rather indulgently when he approaches, while Geralt keeps his face just as blank as earlier. The old Witcher bows slightly. "My lord," he says, and Jaskier can hear the amusement in his voice.

"Oh please," he says, snatching a goblet of wine from a passing servant's tray, "'my lord' is my father. Call me Julian, if you must, though I _prefer_ Jaskier." He gives Geralt what he hopes is a charming smile. The omega just looks at what Jaskier is fairly sure are his eyebrows. "I love how you just... stand in the corner and brood," he says after a moment of awkward silence.

One of Geralt's pale eyebrows rises almost imperceptibly.

" _So_ ," Jaskier says after another silent moment, "Witchers, huh? Killed anything interesting lately?"

The men exchange a look, then Vesemir says, "Define interesting."

Jaskier waves his goblet at the other guests. "Anything that isn't this, to be honest."

"You don't seem particularly invested in these proceedings, if I may be so bold to say."

"You would be correct. My parents have decided that I am too old to play at being a bard and should return to the family's bosom, knock up some omega - no offense - and get fat and boring." He takes a sip of his wine. "Not going to happen if I have any say in it."

"You're a bard?"

Jaskier almost drops his goblet. Geralt hadn't spoken until now, and he catches him unawares. And oh, _of course_ he has the voice to match his looks, low and a little rough and _fuck_ , Jaskier wants the man to tell him all sorts of filthy things with that lovely voice. He looks up, hoping to meet the omega's gaze, but he's sipping from his own goblet and looking around the room. Damn and blast.

"I am, actually. Graduated from Oxenfurt, Master of the seven liberal arts." He snorts, then takes another swig of his wine. "Fat lot of good it'll do me if my parents get their wish."

Vesemir studies him over the rim of his goblet. "You're surprisingly candid about your displeasure."

Jaskier smiles brightly. "I'm too old to dance around these things. My parents want one thing, I want another, and it would be unfair of me to any potential partners," and he has to work very hard to stop his eyes from flicking over to Geralt here, "to pretend that I am in any way invested in getting married and producing a gaggle of children. Mind, I like children, as long as the parents take them away again after a while."

"Hmm." Geralt takes another sip, and that seems to be the extent of his contributions to the conversation. He's listening, clearly, as Jaskier continues to chat with Vesemir about his education and the tiniest bit about being a Witcher, and Jaskier only leaves - very much against his will - when his sister Essi finds him and drags him away.

"Mother is looking for you," she says in the tone of voice that really means 'looking for you so she can rip your head off'. Her eyes dart nervously back and forth between the Witchers, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"I'll be there in a moment." Essi all but runs, and Jaskier sighs before he turns back to the two men. "I'm afraid I must take my leave. It has been a delight," and he puts as much sincerity into his voice as he can, because it's true. "I hope you'll be willing to tell me more about Witchers, Vesemir? I am itching to write _at least_ five ballads."

Geralt huffs what might be laugh. Jaskier feels pleasantly warm.

"Aye, that can be arranged, lad," Vesemir says mildly, and Jaskier beams. Then he turns to face Geralt, tries to catch the omega's eyes, but again, the man looks past him.

"I am thankful for getting to make your acquaintance, Geralt," he says, bowing at the waist, a hand on his heart. There is so much more he wants to say but the words catch in his throat.

Geralt hums again, inclines his head. And then, for the briefest second, he meets Jaskier's gaze, before he turns his head away again, watching the other guests. It's like lightning races up Jaskier's spine as their eyes meet, and he nearly whimpers.

 _Fuck_.

He takes his leave with another bow to both of them, then walks away stiffly. It's like his head is filled with wool, that golden - because that's what his eyes had been, _gold_ , not yellow - gaze seared into his retinas, and a hot flush rises onto his cheeks.

Jaskier has been in love many, many times. It's as easy as breathing for him sometimes. He'll see someone laugh, or be kind to someone else, or argue fiercely, and Jaskier's a goner.

This feels different.

As he makes his way over to his parents, people try to catch his attention, other parents or the omegas themselves, but he's blind and deaf to it all. He's pretty sure he looks rather drunk as he comes to a stop between Essi and his mother, judging by the unimpressed look his father gives him.

"And where were you," he asks, as though he and his mother didn't watch every single step Jaskier took anywhere in this hall.

"Talking to the Witchers," Essi cuts in before Jaskier has a chance to speak. Their mother makes a noise of disgust.

"Why in Melitele's name would you waste your time on them, Julian? They have nothing to offer us, and that omega is so _beastly_."

Jaskier learned a while ago to tune out when his parents talked badly about something he liked. It's an art form in itself, one he has made much use of over the years.

He's not using it today.

"Well, if you must know, I spoke with Vesemir about writing some ballads about the Witchers. They do us all an important service and desperately need someone to polish up their image a little. And _I_ think Geralt is _extremely_ handsome."

Something dark and cold moves over his mother's face, and she grabs his wrist in an iron grip. "Julian, if you're thinking about marrying that- that _abomination_ I will tell you right now to put that ridiculous idea out of your head. No child of mine will debase themselves mating a creature like that."

Jaskier growls, extremely satisfied when his mother flinches, and wrenches his hand from her grip. "Then why did you invite them if you think they're so unfit for," and here he raises his hands and makes air quotes, "polite society?" His voice is dripping with venom, and he doesn't care one whit.

"It was a mistake," his father says quietly, stone-faced. "They weren't supposed to be here."

Jaskier laughs. "Of course not. They're the only interesting people here by far, of course you wouldn't have wanted them anywhere near your _precious_ children. Might put ideas in our heads."

His mother is glaring daggers at him. "You ungrateful child," she hisses. Jaskier notices that there is a sort of bubble around them, one where only their family and his parents' closest advisers are privy to what is being said. He's certain that if they were alone, his mother would slap him. "Don't you understand that we're trying to do what's best for you?"

"It's you who doesn't understand, mother," he says quietly as he leans closer, lets himself loom over her somewhat. It's situations like this one where his alpha physique really comes in handy. "I don't _want_ what you think is best for me. And I am not a child any more."

With that he turns on his heel, ignoring his mother's hissed, "Julian, get _back here_ this instant," and storms out of the hall and down the stairs leading to the gardens. People are staring, parting before him like the sea as whispers rise up around him. Fuck them all to hell.

It's crisp outside, almost cold after the heat of so many bodies inside the hall, and Jaskier gasps, sucks in lungfuls of air as he hurries along the path blindly. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," he chants, kicking a bush as he rounds a corner. "Fuck mother, fuck father, and fuck Essi especially!" He must look slightly unhinged, he thinks, barreling through the garden like there's a devil on his heels and muttering to himself, and he doesn't give half a fig.

He really should have seen all of this coming. He's the oldest, the heir, and his parents had been indulging him when they allowed him to go to Oxenfurt, probably all in a bid to butter him up for this eventuality. In hindsight it's all terribly transparent: let him sow his wild oats before he's to be saddled with an at best indifferent spouse and made to breed like rabbits.

Well. That's not going to happen, if he has any say in it.

He's so focused on his anger that he's only barely aware of where he's going, and so, when he turns another corner around a row of hedges, he barrels straight into someone. A very tall, very sturdy someone, and Jaskier's mouth opens to either apologise or bitch at the person for being in the way - he doesn't know yet which - and then his eyes meet golden ones and everything grinds to a halt.

Geralt has caught him, hands around Jaskier's biceps to hold him steady, and he's looking down at him with what Jaskier is almost certain is amusement. He keeps staring, caught in that golden gaze, drawn in like a moth to a flame, and that same heat from before spreads through him.

The omega's eyes widen, just a fraction, and he very deliberately releases Jaskier's arms. He misses the touch immediately. "You alright," Geralt asks, looking at Jaskier's ear now, and Jaskier could just melt into a puddle at his feet.

"I- Yes, I'm, thank you, I was just-" He's babbling, something he's prone to doing when nervous, and stops himself with a sigh. "No, actually, I'm not. My parents are... a handful."

Geralt hums. "You _really_ don't want to get married."

"Gods, no." He laughs, picks an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve. "I'm not opposed to it on principle, I just don't want to be forced into it."

"I know the feeling," Geralt says, looking over at the manor. All the windows are illuminated, the din of festivities wafting over the garden. Jaskier can't tear his eyes away from the man, the dim light painting dramatic shadows over his face. His jaw looks sharp enough for Jaskier to cut himself on.

He also smells utterly divine, now that they're alone and Jaskier's nose isn't being assaulted by a hall full of people of every presentation. It's a cool scent, putting images of mountains and forests into Jaskier's head. He catches himself as he leans forward slightly, his eyes slipping closed as he concentrates on the scent, and he hopes Geralt didn't notice.

"If you're also not interested in getting married, why are you here," he asks, spotting a low bench and dropping down on it.

Geralt gives him a bit of an odd look, then says, "You don't know."

"Know what?"

"Hm. Maybe Vesemir should tell you." Geralt looks uncomfortable all of a sudden, in a way he hasn't all evening. Even when he'd been introduced to Jaskier's parents, he had been stoic. Now he looks like he's about to run.

"Geralt, what's going on?"

The omega's shoulders slump, just a hint. Then he sits on the bench, a good distance away from Jaskier. "We didn't have a choice. None of the omegas here did." He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands. "Your parents threatened all of us."

Someone took all the air away. Jaskier stares at Geralt, his words ringing in his head, on and on and on, and he can't _breathe_. Faintly he can hear Geralt calling his name, and then there's a hand on his shoulder and one on his jaw and his head is gently being turned to look at the omega, and he realises that he's gasping for breath.

"Jaskier, listen to me, you have to calm down, you're breathing too fast. Breathe with me," and he takes Jaskier's hand and places it on his chest.

 _He's very warm_ , Jaskier thinks, staring at the way Geralt's hand completely covers his. It takes a moment for his brain to catch on, but then he tries to match his breathing to Geralt's. Finally his head clears and he gently pulls his hand free. "I'm sorry, that was-"

"Jaskier." The Witcher's voice is still rough but incredibly gentle and kind. Jaskier looks up at him; there's a line between his eyebrows that Jaskier wants to smooth away with his thumb, with his lips. "You don't have to apologise."

Jaskier huffs a bitter laugh. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have to be here. None of you." He waves a hand in the direction of the manor. He wants to cry. "What did they threaten you with?"

Geralt's lips thin. "We were just passing through Redania. Met a patrol on the road. When they realised what I am they..." His hands tighten into fists. "There were too many. They took Vesemir. Said they'd kill him if I didn't come quietly."

No. _No_ , that can't be true. Then again, it would explain the _literal children_ he was presented with today, and the terror rolling off of them. "What? But- Why? Oh Gods, this is a _nightmare_." He jumps to his feet, starts pacing. "They can't- Did they force _all_ of them to come here?"

"From what I've overheard." Geralt is watching him pace now. "You really had no idea."

"Fuck, no! I'm absolutely horrified!" He runs nervous hands through his hair. "I have to put a stop to this right the fuck now. What were they _thinking_?"

"That if they threw enough omegas at you, you wouldn't have a choice except to pick one." Geralt's lips twist in what might be generously described as a smile. "Maybe even find your true mate."

Jaskier laughs, despite his boiling anger. "Oh dear. I mean, I'm a troubadour and not even I believe in true mates, that's just a fairy tale." Geralt cocks an eyebrow at this, and Jaskier falters. "It is, isn't it?"

"Not exactly. Just extremely rare. I've met two pairs that were true mates."

Two? That's... _far_ more than Jaskier has ever heard of. Also, wait. "Alright, personal, possibly rude, question - how old are you, exactly? I know Witcher age slower than humans."

At this Geralt's face goes blank, and he rises to his feet. "Why do you care," he asks as he starts walking back towards the manor, and Jaskier scrambles to catch up. Gods, his scent really is _delicious_...

"Just curious, I suppose. I'd guess thirty-ish? Late thirties?"

Geralt actually snorts at that. "Not even close." And he just continues walking, even as Jaskier gapes like a very unattractive fish.

"Are you going to give me a hint?"

"No," and then they have reached the doors and when Jaskier has blinked, Geralt has slipped back inside without a backwards glance.  
  
His scent lingers on Jaskier's hand from where he held it against his chest. _Fuck_.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his daze. There is a banquet after the general shit talking and a banquet means speeches. He will never get a better opportunity.

* * *

People are getting seated all around the hall as he walks back inside. He spots Geralt and Vesemir at the far side, backs to a wall. They're talking quietly, the old man's eyes trained on the count and countess. His expression is deliberately neutral.

Jaskier crosses the hall to join his parents and siblings on the dais. His mother sneers at him.

"Where were you?"

"Just needed some air. So many omegas in one place, it's giving me a headache." His mother doesn't miss the thinly veiled stab at her own less sharp nose. Not that he holds her being a beta against her - nobody has influence about their presentation after all.

"That Witcher was outside. Did you speak to him?"

"And what if I did?" He picks up his goblet and takes a swig. "Now I can't _talk_ to people?"

His father gives him a meaningful look, his lips thin in annoyance. "Not at the banquet we're holding to find you a mate."

Jaskier rolls his eyes and says nothing.

Once everyone has found a seat, his father rises to his feet. Silence falls.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," the count says pleasantly, and now that Jaskier knows, he notices the way so many of the guests shift in their seats at that. "It is our honour to host so many beautiful and intelligent omegas in our humble home."

Jaskier hides his face behind his goblet. How is his father not choking on the _absolute bullshit_ coming from his mouth?

"There will be plenty of time to socialise, for now, please enjoy yourselves!"

The food is served, a truly extravagant spread of meats and fresh fruit, and rivers of wine and ale. Jaskier watches his parents closely, the way the watch the hall, how they quietly discuss omegas they think suitable, again like they're choosing cattle at the market. He feels sick witnessing it.

He has always known that their view of alphas and omegas is not unusual for members of the nobility. Knows they were ecstatic that their firstborn was a boy and then, later, turned out to be an alpha. That joy had quickly soured when Jaskier had grown up to be the person he is, someone who couldn't care less about his title or his presentation.

Ah well. _We can't always get what we want_ , he thinks bitterly as he sips his wine.

When the quiet of people eating changes to the slowly rising din of conversations picking up again, Jaskier pats his mouth clean with a napkin, takes another drink from his goblet - a little liquid courage never hurt anyone - and gets to his feet.

A hush descends on the hall as people notice him, and from the corner of his eyes he can see his parents stiffen in their seats. _Good_.

Jaskier lets his gaze glide across the room, taking in the mass of people assembled here, makes careful note of the many scared faces he sees. The boy who had been staring at his crotch earlier is stiff as a board, his hands white-knuckled around his cutlery. At the other end of the hall, the Witchers are watching closely; there's that line between Geralt's brows again.

He clears his throat and puts on his most dazzling smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, as the purpose of this whole event is finding a mate for me, I thought I would take the opportunity of having you all assembled here to make some things clear." He turns to face his parents, and the looks on their faces are something he will cherish forever. Smiling, he speaks loudly and clearly, lets his voice project the way he learned at university. "Mother, father, I know I'm not the son you wanted. An alpha, yes, but one who is interested more in art and music than in politics and scheming. Not to mention the _absolute disgrace_ of an alpha who likes to take it up the arse!"

His mother's face goes white, while his father's turns red. Essi gasps and slaps a hand over her mouth. A shocked murmur runs through the crowd. He smirks.

"I know what you did to these people to get them here, and I cannot put into words how disgusted I am, how ashamed that I have to call myself your son." He takes a breath, then raises his hand. His rings glitter in the candle light. "Which is why I am relinquishing that title." With a flourish, he pulls the family signet ring off his finger and tosses it at his father. The man fumbles as he tries to catch it; the gold clatters to the floor and rolls noisily under the table.

The hall is completely silent. It seems like nobody moves. When his mother opens her mouth to speak, he sketches an over-exaggerated bow, then turns and leaves the hall.

When the door falls closed behind him, he can hear all hell break loose.

* * *

Jaskier races up to his room, taking the stairs two and three at a time. He needs to hurry. Hopefully, his parents will be too busy dealing with the unavoidable fallout of his little performance to catch him.

He grabs his travel bag, the one he likes to take into the coach with him when he goes to Oxenfurt, and shoves clothes inside. A couple of sets to wear, some to sell. He has a travel outfit, a sturdy royal blue set that he changes into quickly, leaving his fancy cloth-of-gold outfit strewn haphazardly across the floor.

There's a small chest of jewellery that he just upends into the bag, and a pouch full of money that he always keeps on hand for emergencies. Last is a thick woolen cloak, his good boots, and of course his lute.

As he unlocks the secret passage that leads to the ground floor, Jaskier takes a last look around. This has been his room all of his life, except the time he spent in Oxenfurt. There are traces of himself everywhere: his stuffed bear from when he was small, the stick figures he angrily scratched into the wall when his father had forbidden him from playing with the stable boys, hidden behind the curtains. This is where he kissed a girl for the first time (a distant cousin), and also where a boy kissed him for the first time (a young valet). A room full of memories, both good and bad.

"Well," he says into the stillness, "can't be helped," and with that he slips into the hidden passage.

He doesn't meet anyone as he hurries down the narrow stairs, nor inside the passage on the ground floor. He exits through another hidden door tucked away by the kitchens, and as soon as he opens it, there's noise all around him. Servants are running this way and that, there is yelling coming from the direction of the great hall, and it's pandemonium, making it easy for him to slip outside unnoticed.

Jaskier wants to run as he makes his way towards the stable, but he forces himself to walk at a normal pace. There is more upheaval out here, people everywhere, and he pushes past a beta man who is laughing so hard it sounds slightly unhinged. He doesn't ask what the man finds so funny.

The stable is, amazingly, empty, and he grabs Pegasus's saddle and tack. Outfitting the horse is quick work, born of years of practice, but he's still so focused on his task that he doesn't hear the door open or the footsteps outside the stall. Not until the people outside speak up, anyway.

"Going anywhere in particular, lad?"

Jaskier jumps what feels like two feet into the air and whips around. Outside the stall are Vesemir and Geralt, clad in their own travelling gear. On each of their backs are two swords. " _Gods_ , you scared me half to death!" He presses a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart. Geralt's mouth quirks up the smallest bit. "If you must know, no, nowhere in particular, just- Out of here."

Vesemir gives him a long look, one that Jaskier has no idea how to decipher. Then he says, "We're heading east. Feel free to tag along." Behind him, Geralt stiffens, the slightest bit. Jaskier flushes.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly-"

Vesemir walks away without another word, and Jaskier is left standing there, blinking up at Geralt, who looks back at him neutrally. Or rather, looks at Pegasus. Then he says, "We'll have to get you a bedroll." Then he turns away and follows Vesemir.

Jaskier stands there another moment. Pegasus flicks an ear in his direction and snorts. "What," Jaskier murmurs, "the fuck."


	2. The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I spent 2k words on a saddle sores side plot.

Again, they don't meet anyone who tries to stop them as they lead their horses out of the grounds. It's very strange, really, and Jaskier is constantly on edge, expecting guards to jump out from behind a bush and force him to go back. Nothing of the sort happens, and soon they are riding away from the manor at a trot, putting distance between themselves and Jaskier's parents.

 _What a night_ , he thinks as they cross a bridge half an hour later. _What a fucking night._

"That was a very brave thing you did back there," Vesemir says into the silence, and Jaskier flushes. "Brave, but also stupid."

Geralt makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. Jaskier twists around in his saddle to see if the man is smiling but it's too dark to see. "I am prone to doing stupid things. It's part of my boyish charm," he says, turning back around. Vesemir laughs, a proper laugh. Then he sobers again.

"How are you going to pay for your dinner, Jaskier? Where will you sleep?"

He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. "I'm a bard, I'll make my way somehow." He gives Vesemir a shrewd look from the corner of his eye. "If I remember correctly you were going to supply me with material for a ballad or three."

The moon hangs high above them when Vesemir veers off the road and into a copse of birches. It's mild enough for camping, Jaskier supposes, although he doesn't think the Witchers would much care if it were pissing down instead.

He doesn't know anything about setting up a camp so he just stands around awkwardly for a moment, until Geralt takes Pegasus's reins from his hand and says, "Look for firewood. The thicker the better."

Their fingers brush as Geralt takes the reins, and Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek and tries to pull his mind out of the gutter at that no doubt unintended innuendo. He _almost_ succeeds.

Finding firewood is more difficult than he'd thought it would be, but then again it's fucking _dark_ and it seems the Witchers have improved eyesight and he does not. He manages to gather a couple of good armfuls anyway and soon there's a crackling fire going. Jaskier flops down beside it after dropping his last collection of sticks on the heap, and almost jumps straight out of his skin.

"Good _gods_ , your eyes," he blurts, staring at the men. Their eyes reflect the light oddly, like those of a cat or deer, and Jaskier can't tear his gaze away.

Vesemir chuckles, while Geralt shifts ever so slightly on the log he sits on. "All Witchers have eyes like this, lad," the older man says mildly. "Helps with seeing in the dark."

"Oh, so you _do_ have improved sight! I suspected as much, given how gracefully you both move, whereas _I_ bumbled around like a fool. I tripped over so many roots, I can't even tell you."

"Sixteen," Geralt says, completely serious, eyes on the knife and piece of wood in his hands. He's whittling something, probably just to pass the time.

"What?" Jaskier stares, confused, and Geralt's gaze flickers up to meet his, just for a second.

"You tripped over sixteen roots," the Witcher says before he resumes his whittling, and Jaskier's jaw drops.

"You _counted_ that?"

Next to Geralt, Vesemir makes a sound that sounds like a cross between a cough and a laugh. "We need to be aware of our surroundings at all times, and when there's a human with us, we pay attention to what they're doing. Don't want you stumbling into any creatures by mistake."

" _No_ ," Jaskier says, drawing out the O, "definitely don't want that."

Geralt's mouth twitches, and Jaskier feels an odd warmth, similar to the heat when their eyes meet. He holds it close, and when Vesemir sends him to bed ("I'm keeping watch, you take my bedroll," he said, ignoring Jaskier's protests), he lets that warmth and the nearby scent of Geralt (which is probably something he should think about _in detail_ at some point) lull him to sleep.

* * *

The next couple of days pass in a similar fashion: they wake, they ride, they camp again. It's a little tedious, if he's being honest, but he understands. He, too, wants to put as many miles between himself and Lettenhove as he can.

Unfortunately, his body has other ideas, and on the fourth day he has to ask for a break, for them to find a healer.

"What do you need," Vesemir asks, matter-of-factly, and Jaskier makes a face.

"I think I have saddle sores. I'm not used to riding this much."

Both Witchers make a low sound of... anger? Which is understandable, he's slowing them down, and they need to get out of the kingdom as quickly as they can.

"It's quite alright," he adds cheerily, "just point me in the right direction and I'll be out of your hair."

" _No_ ," Geralt says, and the fierceness in his voice makes Jaskier's heart jump into his throat. Judging by the look on Geralt's face immediately after he's said it, he's as surprised by his outburst as Jaskier.

"Geralt is right, lad. They'll surely be looking for you as well. Staying with us is your best chance of getting away." He turns to Geralt. "You know what we'll need, get to it." Geralt nods and hops off Roach, his horse, handing the reins to Vesemir, and then he's off the path and heading into a field filled with wildflowers.

"What- You don't need-"

"This isn't open for debate, Jaskier." Vesemir gives him a stern look, and Jaskier acquiesces. To be honest, the prospect of having to ride much further and of having to part from the Witchers had not been one he had been happy about, so Vesemir putting his foot down does serve him quite well.

Vesemir leads him to a clearing not far away, and Jaskier groans as he dismounts. He probably should have spoken up far earlier. The old Witcher quickly assembles a fire while Jaskier tries to ignore the throbbing in his backside, and when Vesemir is done, he waves him over.

"Alright, let's have a look."

Jaskier stares back at him blankly. "Pardon?"

Vesemir gives him such an unimpressed look, Jaskier feels like he just disappointed his favourite grandfather. "I need to see how bad it is to decide how we're going to proceed."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, that- That makes sense." He's not blushing, really, he's not. He shrugs off his cloak and tosses it over a log, then turns his back on the old man. His fingers aren't obeying him and it takes him quite a bit longer than necessary to unbutton his trousers. As he pushes them down, head uncomfortably warm, he can hear Vesemir sink to a knee, and a moment later there's a hand at the small of his back, gently pushing him forward a bit.

"Not as bad as it could have been," the Witcher says, and Jaskier concentrates very hard on a small blueberry bush at the edge of the clearing. "You'll need to clean it. Geralt will make you an ointment, but I'm afraid we'll have to make camp for at least a day." He gets back to his feet and taps Jaskier's back with two fingers, signaling for him to stand up again.

Jaskier pulls his trousers up again with a wince. "I can't make you stay here longer than you have to just because I didn't say something earlier."

"Good thing then that you're not making us do anything." Vesemir pats him on the shoulder. "There's a stream that way, you just stay here and wait for Geralt and I'll fetch some water." With that, he pulls two water skins out of Roach's saddlebag, and then he disappears into the trees.

Jaskier stands there, clutching his still unbuttoned trousers, and feels like a fool.

When Geralt returns with his arms full of flowers, Jaskier has fastened his trousers again and has unsaddled and tethered the horses. Geralt frowns. "You're supposed to rest."

Jaskier rolls his eyes. "I can't sit, so was I supposed to stand here like a moron, doing nothing, and wait for the two of you to come back? I don't think so." He walks over to where Geralt has dropped the flowers. "What's all this then?"

"Need them for your salve," Geralt says, pulling mortar and pestle from a bag, and a couple of tins which, when opened, turns out to be filled with oils and fat of some sort. Jaskier watches as the Witcher starts grinding down the flowers, the scent of them growing thick and heady around them. "How bad is it," Geralt asks, not looking away from his task, and Jaskier shrugs.

"Not as bad as it could have been, apparently. Vesemir had a look and said we should stay here for a day." He grimaces. "I _really_ don't want to hold you back like this, it's my own fault for not speaking up earlier."

"It is," the Witcher says, "but we're not leaving you anyway." Jaskier can see the corner of his mouth tick up a fraction. "You wouldn't make it past Rinde on your own."

"I take great offense to what you're implying here," Jaskier says loftily, even though he knows Geralt is probably right. He just wants to keep the omega talking.

"Hm," Geralt says, then scoops some of the fat into a bowl before he mixes in the flower paste and some of the oil and covers it with a cloth. "This will have to sit for a while." He wipes his hands on a rag. "Did you clean the sores yet?"

"Uh." He's blushing again. He hadn't thought about this part, about the 'having to get naked in front of the omega he's pretty sure he's falling head over heels in love with to treat saddle sores' part. Had tried _very hard_ not to think about it, actually. He sort of wants the ground to open up beneath him. "Vesemir went to get water."

Geralt hums again, then gets up and pulls a small pot out of one of the saddlebags. He sets it into the fire. "The water will boil quicker if it's hot already," he explains.

"Clever." Jaskier shifts his weight. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and he flinches a little. The omega is standing beside him now, so close Jaskier can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Don't be embarrassed," the Witcher says, and Jaskier scoffs. He might as well ask him to stop being an alpha, or needing air.

"Sorry. It's just- I-"

Geralt's hand is on his shoulder, and Jaskier's heart is one hop, skip and jump away from bursting out of his chest. He turns and looks at the omega, and the heat he always feels when their eyes meet courses through him like a tidal wave when Geralt looks back at him for far longer than ever before. Jaskier bites his lip to keep in the whimper that wants to escape.

"We're Witchers," Geralt says, finally looking away. Jaskier would swear the man's cheeks are slightly flushed all of a sudden. "We're used to seeing each other in... less than perfect conditions." His mouth quirks up. "Seeing your scrawny arse won't raise any brows here." He lets go of Jaskier's shoulder, and it's like someone dumped a bucket of water over his head when the contact breaks.

Then his mind catches up to what Geralt said, and he splutters. "What! My arse is a lot of things, Geralt of Rivia, but _scrawny_ is definitely not among them!' He huffs, outraged. "Why, I ought to put you over my knee for such insolence!" It's not until the words have left his mouth that he realises what he just said, and he cringes so hard he's sure he pulled a muscle.

Until, that is, he looks at Geralt again, who is now crouched beside the fire, stoking the flames with a stick. He looks up at Jaskier with what would barely be a smirk on someone else, but counts as a really rather cocky grin on the Witcher. "You can _try_ ," he says, then turns back to the fire.

Melitele's steaming cunt, _fuck_.

Yup, he's definitely, hopelessly in love.

* * *

The whole thing turns out to be much simpler than Jaskier would have thought. It might be Vesemir's no nonsense approach to things. When the old Witcher returns with the water, he brings it to a boil with the help of a little magic - which, quite honestly, might be one of the most amazing things Jaskier has ever seen - and then hands him the pot and some rags.

"Wipe yourself down thoroughly, then pat everything dry. If you need help, say something." He looks at him sternly. "Living like this, we can't afford delicate sensibilities."

Jaskier nods. "I understand. Just..." His eyes flicker over to Geralt, and Vesemir's gaze softens somewhat.

"Is that salve ready, pup?" Geralt hands over the bowl, not looking at Jaskier, but he can see the tiny smile tugging at the man's lips.

Jaskier takes his supplies behind a tree, setting everything down on the ground before he kneels. Trousers pushed down, he first cleans his hands with the really still quite hot water before reaching between his legs. He winces. This is going to be _oodles_ of fun.

At the first touch of the steaming rag to his irritated skin, Jaskier hisses, a low, emphatic, "Fucking _cock_!" He definitely should've said something earlier. One of the smaller sores has burst, right in the crease between his arse and thigh, and it stings something awful.

"You alright," comes Vesemir's voice, and Jaskier rests his head against the tree.

"Just a bit tender," he says, and even with his non-enhanced human hearing he can hear Geralt scoff. Jaskier grits his teeth and finishes cleaning himself up, then pats everything dry, something that feels even worse. After another moment where he breathes the sting away, he scoops up some of the salve with his fingers. It's slippery and smells strongly of flowers, and when he rubs it into his skin, he feels almost immediate relief, a cooling sensation spreading wherever the salve touches. "Oh fuck, what's in this, Geralt," he all but moans, "it feels magnificent!"

There's silence for a moment, then Geralt answers, "It's just chamomile oil, don't overexcite yourself, lordling."

Jaskier splutters and cranes his neck so he can look around the tree. Geralt is sitting with his back to him, meaning Jaskier can't glare at him as effectively as he'd like to. "Don't call me that _ever_ again," he hisses instead.

Geralt stiffens, ever so slightly. Then the omega says, hoarsely, "Sorry."

Vesemir's eyebrows rise, almost imperceptibly, and Jaskier's mouth falls open. Geralt does not seem like the kind of person who apologises easily, and judging by Vesemir's look of mild surprise, Jaskier is correct in that assessment. He feels his cheeks heat and ducks behind the tree again. "It's alright," he says, voice a little rough.

His hands are shaking, Jaskier realises after a second. What the fuck.

When he has heaved himself to his feet and pulled his trousers up again, he picks up the pot and tosses the water, then stuffs the rags inside. With the pot and bowl in hand, he reemerges into the clearing. The Witchers are still where he left them. Jaskier's recently acquired bedroll has been spread out beside the fire.

"Thought you might like to stay off your backside for a bit," Vesemir says with a grin as he holds a hand out for the the pot and bowl, and Jaskier flushes.

"Yes, quite," he says and lowers himself onto his knees, then slowly lies down on his front. He crosses his arms and rests his chin on his wrists, sighing. "I meant it, Geralt, this feels really good," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Geralt... grunts, then gets to his feet, not once looking at Jaskier. "I'll get us some dinner," and then he melts into the trees.

Vesemir watches him go with an odd expression on his face, then turns to Jaskier. "You put alpha in your voice back there," he says bluntly, and Jaskier sucks in a breath.

" _What_? No, that can't be, I've never-"

"You did. You obviously didn't mean to," he says, "but you did. You should apologise to him for that." The Witcher looks back at the trees for a moment. "He's never reacted that way to it before."

Jaskier is pretty sure his heart is trying to crawl out of his throat.

"Witchers are alphas, as a rule," Vesemir continues. "There's very few of us who are omegas. Only one of our school left."

"Geralt," Jaskier chokes out, and Vesemir nods.

"There's only four of us wolves, Jaskier. Used to be dozens. He's used to being around alphas. Trainers would try and use their voice with him, his brothers did when they had a spat. Never once worked on him." He gives Jaskier a long, searching look. "What does he smell like to you?"

The old Witcher can't be insinuating what Jaskier thinks he is. "Just... like an omega, I suppose."

"Don't lie to me, boy. I can smell it." He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands. "I've seen the way you jolt whenever the two of you look at each other. How flushed you get."

"Well, he's _pretty_ , of course I'll-"

"That's not it and you know it."

 _Fuck_.

"He's not interested," Jaskier finally says, looking at the grass in front of him, unable to stand Vesemir's scrutiny a second longer. There's a ladybug sitting on a daisy right by his head, and he counts the spots on it's back, over and over, to distract himself from the thought the old man has put into his head.

True mates. Love at first sight, only a hundred times stronger.

It _can't_ be.

"Jaskier," Vesemir says now, surprisingly gently, "if he wasn't, he would have told me to leave you in Lettenhove. He never would have agreed to let you travel with us." His mouth quirks into a smile. "Wouldn't have tolerated your singing either, and he _definitely_ would've wrung your neck over the 'put you over my knee' comment instead of telling you to try."

Jaskier groans and hides his face in the crook of his arms. "You heard that?" His voice is muffled but he knows that it, apparently, won't make much of a difference.

"Witchers have excellent hearing." The man sounds smug.

"Great." Jaskier sighs and lifts his head again, hoping he doesn't look quite as besotted as he feels when he says, "He smells _so fucking good_ , Vesemir. When I ran into him in the garden I had to stop myself from leaning in and scenting him right then and there."

"Hmm." Vesemir gives him another long look. "Well, if it makes you feel better, you have my express permission to court him."

And even if Jaskier feels like he could die from mortification, he finds that, yes, that does make him feel better.

* * *

Geralt returns half an hour later with a pheasant that Vesemir immediately plucks out of his hands and sits on the other side of their camp with to prepare it. Geralt stands beside the fire a little awkwardly, and Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows.

"I need to apologise," he says, and Geralt's eyes flicker over to him for a second before he sits heavily on his own bedroll.

"What for?"

"Vesemir said... He said I used my alpha voice. Earlier." Geralt stiffens, and Jaskier licks his lips. "I'm truly sorry, I didn't realise... I've never used it before, and I didn't know I was doing it. Please forgive me."

Geralt is quiet for a long time. Then he looks at Jaskier, properly. The same rush of heat flows through Jaskier as before, and now that he knows to look for it, to pay attention, he can see the way Geralt's cheeks turn decidedly rosier than before. "It's fine," the Witcher says at length before he looks away again, and Jaskier feels instantly bereft.

Until he sees the hint of a smile tugging at Geralt's lips, that is.

* * *

By noon the next day, Jaskier's arse feels much better, to the extent that sitting a saddle doesn't sound like torture any more. He's still uncomfortable but Geralt's salve has done wonders. He even jokingly starts writing a song about it.

"Salve, mauve, suave... This is a _horrible_ word for rhyming," he murmurs as he strums his lute absently, trying to come up with lyrics.

"Agreed," Geralt says from behind him, and Jaskier grins. He's enjoying the omega's dry humour immensely.

They make good time despite having to stop every now and again so Jaskier can smear more of the salve onto his arse, and after a few days they cross the Pontar and into Temeria, which makes both of his companions relax visibly. The Witchers want to go see a blacksmith at the first opportunity, and when they reach the next larger settlement, Jaskier begs off accompanying them.

"Really, I'll be fine," he insists as Geralt scowls at him in the tavern's common room. "I'll just wait here, maybe have a look around the neighbourhood."

Finally Geralt acquiesces and leaves with Vesemir, and Jaskier's heart thumps quickly against his ribs. He watches the two men walk off, and he doesn't miss the distrustful looks the other patrons send their way. He purses his lips. This won't do at all.

But first. "Say, my good fellow," he says jovially to the man behind the bar, "is there, perchance, a place I could buy jewellery in this fine town?"

He's directed to a little shop a couple of streets away, and after digging through his own jewellery he picks a couple of things he wants to exchange. He mostly owns rings and brooches, both terribly impractical for a Witcher, he thinks. The shop is small and run by a comely middle-aged woman who smiles excitedly when he asks after omega jewellery.

"Right this way, if you please. We don't have a lot of demand for these things, unfortunately, so they might be a little old-fashioned, but I'm sure you'll find something to your liking!"

The courting jewellery she shows him _is_ old-fashioned but Jaskier thinks about the way Geralt had evaded his questions about his age and thinks this may just be the ticket. He ends up with a set of simple silver bracelets to start with, and a delicate silver body chain that loops around the neck and rests on its wearer's shoulders, dipping down to frame the chest. He hasn't seen Geralt shirtless so far but he can tell he'd look magnificent in this. It's a far more intimate gift than the bracelets, so he'll save it for later.

 _I don't even know if he'll accept my courtship_ , he thinks, slightly manic, as the woman wraps up his purchase, but he finds he doesn't really want to be reasonable and wait until a later time to buy something like the chain.

He's hopeful, and it never hurts to prepare.

Jaskier heads back to the tavern, to find the Witchers already waiting for him. Geralt's face is a thundercloud of annoyance.

"Where were you?"

"Shopping, my dear Witcher," Jaskier replies pleasantly, and Geralt looks simultaneously more annoyed and what might be delightedly surprised. "Did you want to get a room tonight," he asks Vesemir, letting Geralt stew a little in whatever he's feeling right now.

"Might be a good idea, if we can find someone to house us."

Jaskier frowns. "Why wouldn't they? Our coin's as good as anybody else's."

"Yours may be, but a Witcher's coin is often worth less." Vesemir says it in a tone of voice one might use to discuss the weather, and Jaskier pales.

"What? Why? That makes no sense."

"Humans don't like Witchers," Geralt says quietly, looking down at his hands, and Jaskier's heart aches at the resignation in his voice.

"Alright, you know what? This is ridiculous. We will get some rooms, and we will pay less than usual, if it's the last thing I'll do." The Witchers both wear looks of mild befuddlement and Jaskier gets up, clapping his hands. "Up you get, chop chop!"

Geralt looks, for a second, as though he's going to punch him; Jaskier just smiles, and when Vesemir gets to his feet, the white haired Witcher sighs and follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both so fucking cheeky, I love them.


	3. The Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I am looking respectfully 👉👈  
> Geralt: I am looking disrespectfully 😏
> 
> That's it, that's the chapter.

They find a nice inn a couple of streets away, and Jaskier passes through the common room with a smile and playing a jaunty melody. The woman behind the bar looks at him dubiously. "Good evening, my fair lady! I was wondering if maybe you had some rooms available for my friends and me?"

"Who're your friends," she asks dubiously, and Jaskier steps aside. When she sees the Witchers, her face sours. "Sorry," she says in that tone that says she's not even a tiny bit sorry, "we're full."

"Let's go, Jaskier," Geralt growls behind him, and Jaskier tuts.

"We'd be fine with even one room, and in exchange I could maybe play for your guests?" He plays a quick little melody, and her eyes flicker downwards to his lute for a moment. _Got you_ , he thinks.

"One room for the three of you?" Jaskier nods, and she gives a thin-lipped smile. "Alright then."

"And if you could throw in some of your no doubt delicious dinner, that would be superb." His smile sharpens. "Considering that entertainment such as this brings in customers that _wouldn't_ otherwise grace to darken your doorstep, I expect you won't charge us per head for the room. That would just be bad business, seeing as I would then have to take mine elsewhere."

The woman looks like she's about to protest, but then one of the Witchers shifts his weight casually. Leather creaks softly, and she looks annoyed. "Fine, no charge for you and the old one." Jaskier has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. " _Him_ ," and here she points a finger at Geralt; Jaskier bristles. "He pays, and his dinner, too."

It's still a far better deal than Jaskier had hoped for, and so he bows and grins at her. "Done!" Pushing his lute behind his back, he holds out a hand. "The key then, if you please?"

Upstairs, Vesemir drops his pack by the hearth with a chuckle. "Impressive, lad, truly. I suppose we'd better keep this one around, don't you agree, Geralt?"

Geralt, Jaskier finds as he turns his head to look at him, is watching him with a very peculiar look on his face, before he turns away and, to Jaskier's confusion, unrolls his bedroll.

"What are you doing?"

"You and Vesemir can have the bed," Geralt says, not looking at him, and Jaskier frowns.

"Why? Why not the two of you?"

Geralt mumbles something unintelligible, and Vesemir chuckles again. "Because you're human and I'm old," he says, kicking off his boots.

Jaskier puffs up his cheeks. "What, you think I'm fragile because I'm human? Can't take sleeping on the floor?"

"I think _your work_ is paying for the room," Geralt says, still not looking at him.

"Exactly," Jaskier cries, "and therefore I get to decide who sleeps in the bed."

Before Geralt can protest again - which he's about to, judging by the tension in his shoulders - Vesemir cuts in with, "Both of you shut up. _I'll_ take the floor, and you two try and get along."

Jaskier shoots the man a dirty look, but Vesemir just smiles back placidly.

"Now, if you'd be so kind, I could do with a nap and I will make use of this bed for that. You two can make yourselves scarce. Don't you have a crowd to entertain, bard?"

Jaskier glares at him one more time. "Alright, but _only_ because you actually called me bard. Nobody does that." He drops his pack and cloak by the door, then pulls his lute to his front again. "Geralt, are you coming?"

The Witcher seems to give Vesemir his own dirty look before he gets to his feet again. Then he follows Jaskier wordlessly.

There's a decent crowd in the common room, and Geralt disappears into a dark corner. Suits Jaskier just fine.

"Good evening, good people!" Some heads turn, and a wave of interest moves through the room. Jaskier smiles. "Please allow me to sweeten your dinner with music straight from Vizima!" A bold-faced lie - it's his own composition, but these people don't know that. It's a quiet but happy tune, perfect to start the evening.

After that, he segues into familiar songs like Blue Petticoats and Lady Lie Near Me, before he pulls out the bawdier ones: Fishmonger's Daughter, The Devil and the Ploughman, and, his personal favourite, The Lusty Young Smith.

As he sings about the smith's red hot iron and the damsel's forge, he can't stop himself from chancing a look over at Geralt in his corner. The Witcher is watching him with a bemused expression (or at least with what passes for bemusement on the man), but he _is_ watching, and Jaskier smiles at him.

Geralt smiles back, just the tiniest quirk of his lips, and then their eyes meet propely, and Jaskier's voice cracks around "hammer" as heat flows through him. Geralt snorts, and looks down at his ale.

Gods, he's _so_ fucked.

* * *

Jaskier winds down after about an hour. He's a bit out of practice, not having had the opportunity for longer performances in Lettenhove. When he heads for the table still occupied by Geralt, the innkeeper intercepts him.

"That was surprisingly good," she says, then gives him a crooked grin, "if a bit lewd for my husband's taste."

He laughs. "My apologies." He sketches a bow. "About that dinner then..."

"Want to take it up to the room? The old one didn't come down with you."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'll be just a moment."

Jaskier smiles at her again, then makes his way over to Geralt. " _Phew_! Oh, I did miss this, you know?"

Geralt grunts and pushes a tankard in front of him. "It was alright."

"Please, you loved it." He takes a sip of the ale. Not too watered down, surprisingly.

"A bit too much talk of _hammers_ , in my opinion." The Witcher is smirking as he says it, and oh, Jaskier enjoys this far too much.

"I do like a bawdy tune, I admit it." And, with a grin and a wink, he bursts into song again: " _Do virgins taste better than those who are not? /Are they salty or sweet or more juicy or what? / Do you savor them slowly, gulp them down on the spot? / Do virgins taste better than those who are not?_ " He tops it all off with a rather lewd gesture, and Geralt snorts.

"That's not how it works," he says mildly, raising his tankard. "Dragons couldn't care less about virgins."

"Ah, you truly are no fun," Jaskier says. "These songs aren't meant to be educational, they're supposed to make you laugh!" He gives Geralt a sidelong look. "Not that you'd know much about _that_."

"I do laugh," Geralt says, that damnable oh-so-attractive smirk pulling at his lips again. "When something is funny."

* * *

When their dinner arrives, Jaskier pours all of his charm into thanking the innkeeper. The woman just rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she walks back to the bar, and Jaskier beams, feeling accomplished.

"You have a way with people," Geralt says as they carry three bowls filled to the brim with venison stew up the stairs. "It's a little concerning."

"How so?" Jaskier squints in the not at all sufficient light of the staircase, trying hard not to trip.

"Do you have any non-human ancestry?"

At that, Jaskier has to laugh. "What, are you accusing me of being a siren?"

"No," Geralt says evenly, "much too pretty for a siren," and with that he brushes past Jaskier, leaving him standing there with his mouth open in shocked delight. Delighted shock? Whatever.

Vesemir opens the door for them, taking the bowl meant for him out of Geralt's hand. "Good show," he asks Jaskier, and the bard nods, grinning.

"Didn't expect it to be, honestly, but people were very appreciative."

"Maybe because three quarters of your songs were about fucking," Geralt mumbles into his stew, and Jaskier snorts.

"You have to give the people what they want, my dear," he says, noting how Geralt stiffens ever so slightly at the term. He concentrates on his bowl. "And there are worse things to sing about."

"Isn't that the truth," Vesemir says with a smile, and that's that. They all focus on their food, and when they're done, Jaskier takes the bowls back downstairs. The innkeeper takes them back with a nod.

"Anything else you needed?"

Jaskier thinks for a moment. "Do you have a washroom, maybe?"

"Nah, sorry, only a wooden tub."

"Could you have that brought up, or show me where it is?"

She squints at him for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders.

The tub is barely large enough to sit in, but it will do. The woman tells him not to worry, she'll have everything brought up, and it's not until he's standing in front of the door to their room that he realises his mistake.

There's three of them, and only one tub. No easy way to exchange the water. Which would probably be fine for Vesemir and him, both of them being alphas, but for Geralt? He'll definitely not want to be covered in alpha scent after having to use water they'd already been in.

Maybe if Vesemir goes first, him being the familiar alpha, then Geralt, then Jaskier? That might work, although the thought of smelling like Geralt makes his stomach do an odd flip, and encourages blood flow to regions where he _definitely_ can't use it right now.

Fuck.

His frantic thinking is interrupted when the door opens from the inside. Geralt stands there, giving him a strange look. "You coming or what?"

Fucking fuck. Fucking _cock_. Literally.

"I was just... lost in thought," he stammers as he walks into the room. Vesemir is sitting on the floor by the bed, sharpening one of his swords. The whetstone moving along the edge is loud in the confined space.

Behind him, Geralt closes the door with a snort. Jaskier is very sure that Geralt knows exactly what kind of thoughts kept him rooted to the spot outside.

"I asked for a bath to be brought up," he says, only half in an effort to change the subject. "If either of you is interested."

"That's a good idea, actually," Vesemir says, and Geralt hums in that particular way that Jaskier has learned in the last couple of days means that he's pleased with something.

Something inside Jaskier purrs at the thought that what he did pleases the omega. He shoves it down. Now is _not_ the time.

"It's not all that big but one at a time should fit."

"Hm. Geralt, you want to go first?" Vesemir pauses, the whetstone held loosely in his hand, and Jaskier busies himself with putting away his lute.

Geralt doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, "You can go first, Ves. Age before beauty," he adds, and Jaskier chokes on his spit.

* * *

The real problem with this whole thing only becomes apparent to Jaskier when the tub has been brought in and filled: he'll have to be in the same room as a naked Geralt, and be naked in turn.

Melitele have mercy.

Vesemir does indeed go first, and Jaskier spends the time waiting for the man to be done by scribbling notes about their travels down in a small book he bought in the last town they were in. He is definitely going to write a song about their daring escape. Maybe he'll even perform it at some point, seeing how the whole thing is supposed to be rather hush-hush.

The old Witcher hums under his breath as he scrubs himself down with a neutral soap, having rejected the pine scented one Jaskier had offered him. "It would clash with my own scent," he says, and Jaskier found he had to agree. Vesemir's scent is an oddly muted citrusy one, and that would not go well with the pine at all.

Geralt has no such reservations, snatching the bar out of Jaskier's still outstretched hand.

When Vesemir is done and has gotten out of the tub, Geralt gets to his feet. Jaskier stares at his notebook until his eyes cross. The clink of a belt, followed by the rustle of cloth is enough to make his heart rate go up in a rather concerning fashion. _It's just skin_ , he thinks, tries to convince himself that seeing the omega naked is no big deal.

Then he makes the mistake of sneaking a look.

Geralt is... a _marvel_. Tall and broad and so pale, all over. The scar Jaskier could see peeking out of his collar goes all the way down over his shoulder blade. There are slashes and bite marks and a couple that look like arrow wounds, and Jaskier is _bewitched_. Then his eyes travel downwards, and he almost chokes on his tongue. Sweet Melitele, you could bounce a coin off of that tight ass.

When Geralt sinks into the bath, he groans in undisguised pleasure, and Jaskier wrenches his head around and stares down at his notebook again. He's so very, _very_ fucked.

Geralt soaks for a long time, head tipped back against the edge of the tub and his eyes closed, and it takes Jaskier just as long to get his raging cock back under control. He very deliberately does not look again, waiting for Geralt to be done and out of the tub. That means it's his turn.

 _This was a phenomenally stupid idea_ , he thinks as he gets to his feet and tugs on the ties of his chemise. Geralt has pulled on pants and a loose shirt and is puttering around with... something, and Jaskier just decides to get it over with quickly. He tugs his chemise over his head and drops it on the bed, then shucks his trousers and smallclothes.

Geralt, he notices from the corner of his eye, seems to have none of his reservations about looking, and Jaskier ardently wishes for the ground to open up beneath his feet to put him out of his misery. Instead, he slides into the bath. He can't stop himself from making a sound of displeasure when he finds the water lukewarm, at best.

"Anything the matter?" Vesemir sits by the fire in similarly leisurely clothes, darning a sock. Jaskier shifts in the tub, trying to ignore Geralt at his back.

"No, no, it's alright, it's just... a bit, well. Cold. Ish."

A pale hand appears in his line of sight, Geralt's hand, and then it dips into the water - right above his crotch - and the fingers form a sign and-

" _Fuck_ , that's hot!" He does not squeak in pained surprise but it's a close call. Geralt, the absolute bastard, pulls his hand back and flicks water at Jaskier's face as he goes. Jaskier grumbles. "Were you planning on boiling me alive? I'm not a _lobster_ , you know?"

Geralt has a bag in his other hand, one that clinks with glass bottles as he moves to sit on the bed. "I'll keep that in mind," he says and starts going through the bag, smiling to himself.

Jaskier huffs and sinks down lower in the water, his knees sticking out above the surface. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all, he thinks, until he inhales.

The water smells faintly of Geralt.

 _He'll_ smell like Geralt.

His eyes flicker over to the omega, seemingly absorbed in his task, but then their eyes meet as Geralt looks over from the corner of his eyes, and Jaskier takes a deep breath and sinks under the water.

* * *

When the bath has been emptied and the tub taken away again, Jaskier can't stop himself from yawning. His jaw cracks with it.

"Just go to bed, boy, you won't miss any riveting conversation," Vesemir says, and Jaskier chuckles and rubs at his eye.

"Yeah, I probably should. I expect you'll want an early start tomorrow?"

"That would be ideal. There's a whole lot of nothing between here and Ellander, doesn't help to dawdle."

Jaskier nods, then crawls into the bed. He is bone-tired, and a bed, even a rather lumpy one in an inn somewhere in the middle of nowhere, sounds delightful. The bed isn't all that wide but he doesn't care.

Until he has settled, because then Geralt sits beside him, running his fingers through his still damp hair, and then Jaskier remembers that, right, they'll share the bed.

Bollocks.

He turns his back on the Witcher in what he hopes is an inconspicuous manner, settling once more. His heart is racing, which is not conducive to a good night's sleep at all.

No 'good night's are exchanged. One of the Witchers simply extinguishes the candles, and then Geralt settles on his side of the bed. Jaskier can feel the heat of his body against his back, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. _Just go to sleep_ , he thinks, _it's not that hard._

He lies there for a long time, listening to the Witchers' slow breathing, and when he finally falls asleep, his senses are filled with Geralt.

* * *

Jaskier wakes warm and comfortable, and he shifts and sighs when the arm draped over his middle shifts with his movement. There's an annoyed rumble from behind him, and he gives an answering hum. The arm tugs him closer, and there's hot breath at the nape of his neck. Jaskier sighs softly and basks in it.

 _Wait_.

An arm around his middle.

A very solid body behind him.

Warm breath against his neck.

Fuck, he's dead. Geralt is going to _kill him._

His heart skips and ratchets up, and behind him, Geralt stirs, his arm tightening around Jaskier for a second. He breathes, deeply, right where Jaskier's hair has curled a little after drying overnight. Then he goes completely still.

Jaskier doesn't dare move a muscle. He's even holding his breath, which, yes, is a little childish. It takes eons, seemingly, but finally Geralt lifts his arm, ever so slowly, until he has let go of Jaskier, and he breathes out carefully. Geralt moves away, until there is a respectable amount of space between them.

Jaskier immediately misses the heat of his body, the way the Witcher fit so perfectly against his back. In a moment of what he tells himself is temporary insanity, Jaskier decides to turn around.

Geralt is looking back at him, and the familiar heat blooms in Jaskier's chest. The Witcher is soft with sleep, even with the seemingly ever-present line between his brows. He's also very, _very_ close. Jaskier only needs to lean forward ever so slightly, and he could kiss him.

"Good morning," he says quietly, still looking into Geralt's eyes, and the other's mouth twitches.

"Hmm," he says. He's not looking away, and Jaskier has to clamp down _hard_ on the impulse to kiss him now.

This close, with the blanket still around them both, he's absolutely drowning in Geralt's scent, and it's him who breaks eye contact first, simply because his eyes flutter closed. His lips part, and now he can taste the omega, the scent coating every part of his mouth.

Jaskier _moans_ , and is immediately horrified. His eyes fly open, apology for his outrageous behaviour on the tip of his tongue - but for some inexplicable reason, there's the smallest smile tugging at the omega's lips.

Then he rolls over and swings his legs out of the bed, leaving Jaskier to stare at the spot he just vacated.

What. The fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Blue Petticoats](https://youtu.be/7AbkMsLNnC4)   
>  [Lady Lie Near Me](https://youtu.be/Te4GLcEeZxY)   
>  [The Devil and the Ploughman](https://youtu.be/KrC8CiCHP4w)   
>  [The Lusty Young Smith](https://youtu.be/xXmftDC9Duo)   
>  [Do Virgins Taste Better](https://youtu.be/j-2o0T5esl0)


	4. The Road, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me! One year closer to kicking it!
> 
> Let's see what these idiots are up to after getting up close and personal last time...

After a hearty breakfast, during which Jaskier avoids looking at either Witcher as much as possible - the smirk Vesemir wore as he'd told them good morning had been far too knowing - they pack up their things and head out again. The jewellery sits heavy in Jaskier's pack, and his skin tingles where Geralt's arm had been wrapped around him, his neck where the Witcher's warm breath brushed over his skin. It's maddening, and he lags behind for most of the day, trying to calm his constant low-level arousal.

It doesn't help that being back here gives him a truly _excellent_ view of Geralt's arse.

They make camp in the woods again, and Vesemir disappears into the trees almost as soon as he has tethered his horse. To catch them dinner, he says, but Jaskier suspects an ulterior motive.

In any case, it's the first time he has really been alone with Geralt since the manor's garden. He watches the Witcher putter around the camp, starting a fire, feeding the horses and pulling logs close for them all to sit on, and he can't help but stare. The omega is so gorgeous, and the phantom touch of his arm burns against Jaskier's ribs.

Fuck it.

He digs through his saddlebags to find the bracelets he bought, humming in satisfaction when he finds them. His heart thunders in his chest as he watches his reflection in the silver. This is either a brilliant or a truly idiotic idea.

Geralt is sitting by the fire when he turns, sharpening a dagger. Hm. Maybe now is not the _best_ time, with a blade in the Witcher's hand, but then again Jaskier is reasonably certain that Geralt always has _at least_ one weapon on his person somewhere. He makes his way over and stands around a little awkwardly, until Geralt sighs and stops the steady motion of the whetstone over the blade.

"What?"

Jaskier doesn't exactly throw himself onto the log beside the omega but it's a near thing. Geralt's mouth twitches. "I wanted- That is to say-"

"Is this about this morning," Geralt asks, quietly, and he looks- Fuck, he looks _uncomfortable_ all of a sudden, watching Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. He thinks Jaskier is... angry, or embarrassed, or somesuch nonsense.

Oh, that won't do.

"In a way, yes." He turns his body to face the Witcher more and clears his throat. Their knees are almost touching. "I- I bought something. For you." Geralt's eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch. _Now or never_ , Jaskier thinks, and holds up the bracelets. They're simple things, polished silver with thin decorative lines along the edges, nothing fancy or frilly. Almost utilitarian in their simplicity.

Geralt is staring down at Jaskier's hand, at the bracelets. The fire light glints on the edges. "Courting jewellery," he croaks, disbelief clear in his voice. Jaskier bites his lip.

"Yes. I- I would like to court you, Geralt, if you'll allow it." His heart is trying to beat out of his chest, he's sure of it.

Geralt keeps staring at the silver in Jaskier's hand. He makes no attempt to touch it. After a long, tense silence, he asks, "Why?"

Alright. Not the reaction he anticipated. "What do you mean, why?"

"I thought you didn't want to get married."

 _Oh_. "I didn't, not to someone my parents _forced_ on me." Jaskier shifts on his log; now their knees brush against each other. "But I'd like to court you. If you're not interested, I will respect that and leave you in peace." The mere thought sends a sharp pain into his guts but he means it. If Geralt tells him to take a hike, he'll do it. He has no desire to pursue someone who clearly doesn't want him. He's a little confused by the, to him, really rather obvious flirting that has been going on between them ever since they met, but hey, maybe he misread things. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Why me," Geralt asks quietly, but Jaskier can feel the agitation simmering below the surface. "I'm not-"

Jaskier waits for him to continue, but Geralt presses his lips together and stares into the fire. "You're not, what?"

"I'm not a _proper_ _omega_ ," Geralt hisses finally, and Jaskier's heart sinks. "I'm not some dainty little thing you can order around. I could _crush you,_ " he says acidly, and Jaskier feels a flare of heat burst to life in his gut at the mental image of being caught between the Witcher's powerful thighs and _oh Melitele save hi_ m. "I can't-" Geralt's mouth twists, and he spits out the rest of his sentence: "I can't give you children."

Jaskier blinks at Geralt for a long moment, mind still a little caught up in the idea of being suffocated between the omega's legs, and it takes him far too long to catch up to what Geralt just said. When his brain has processed the meaning, he blurts, "You think I care about that?"

Geralt scoffs. "That's _all_ humans care about."

"Were you not listening to me at the party? I barely _like_ children, why would I want my own? Besides, I'd be a truly _terrible_ influence on young, impressionable minds. Gods, the havoc I would wreak as a father! I'm sure you wouldn't want _your_ child sung to sleep with The Fishmonger's Daughter."

That pulls the tiniest of smiles from Geralt, and hope blooms in Jaskier's chest. He decides then and there to give this his all, and so he slides off the log to kneel before Geralt. The Witcher looks stunned, and Jaskier holds out the bracelets again.

"Please allow me to court you, omega," he says quietly, and then he tilts his head back, baring his throat.

Geralt sucks in a breath.

Jaskier kneels there and waits, his hands shaking ever so slightly. He's a bit queasy with nerves. He knows that this is a gamble. Alphas don't present their throats like this. They're supposed to be strong and domineering, never give an inch. Courting is supposed to be a formality - the alpha "asks" and the omega has little choice but to accept. Well, bollocks to that, he's always thought. Geralt may not be a proper omega, whatever the fuck that even _means_ , but it works out rather perfectly since Jaskier is not a proper alpha either. Half of Oxenfurt will attest to that.

After what feels like a small eternity, Geralt takes his hands in his, tugs them into his lap, and then he's there, nosing at Jaskier's throat, scenting him, and Jaskier goes lightheaded, a hot flush spreading all over his body. " _Oh fuck_ ," he gasps, trembling from head to toe, and then Geralt licks a hot stripe up his jugular and Jaskier thinks he's going to come in his breeches. "Geralt," he croaks as he drops the bracelets into the Witcher's lap, hands grabbing the man's strong thighs instead.

"I accept," Geralt rumbles against his throat, and Jaskier moans, far too loudly. And then Geralt moves back and Jaskier has to breathe, has to concentrate on it to pull in large gulps of air, trying to get himself back under control. Geralt is looking down at the bracelets in his lap; he's a little flushed, too, and Jaskier wants to kiss him. Finally, Geralt picks up one of them and holds it out to Jaskier. "Put them on me?"

Jaskier almost faints. His hands are shaking again when he pulls the bracelet out of Geralt's fingers, and it's like static against his skin when the palm of his hand brushes against the omega's. The silver just barely goes around his wrist, and Jaskier winces. "I'm sorry it's a little tight, it was the biggest they had."

Geralt is looking down at his wrist with a thoroughly bemused expression on his face, as though he can't quite believe what just happened. "I don't mind," he says quietly, "silver expands with... with body heat." He picks up the second bracelet then and holds it out for Jaskier, and they repeat the process, and when both wrists are encased with the metal, Jaskier sits back on his heels and stares.

"You-" He chokes a little, his mouth too dry. "You look beautiful," he finally manages, and Geralt snorts.

"Right. Beautiful." He pulls his sleeves down to cover his wrists, and picks up the dagger and whetstone again.

Jaskier tries not to wince at the dismissal. He heard what people - what _his_ _parents_ \- said about Geralt at the party, in the tavern just yesterday. He doesn't think it's out of the ordinary. And it's true, Geralt is an unusual omega, tall and broad and strong, not at all what one expects omegas to be, and Jaskier could easily spend his days worshipping the gorgeous man in front of him. It just seems that he's rather alone in that.

Well, all the better for him.

"Geralt," he says as he climbs back onto the log beside the Witcher, "I mean it. I think you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And these," he touches one bracelet lightly through the fabric of Geralt's shirt, "these look amazing on you." He smiles, lets some cheekiness seep into his voice. "Knew I picked well."

Geralt huffs a laugh then, and when Jaskier inches closer on the log, Geralt lets him, until they're pressed together at the hip and thigh. Then he goes back to sharpening his dagger.

"I meant what I said," Jaskier says after a while. "I don't care whether or not you're a proper omega. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not _quite_ a proper alpha."

Geralt snorts, amused. "I faintly remember a bit about liking it up the arse," he says conversationally, and heat spreads through Jaskier. He hums, and Geralt chuckles. "You're very odd, Jaskier, even for a human."

Jaskier grins, and leans a little closer. "Why, thank you, dear Witcher, I shall take that as a compliment."

* * *

Vesemir takes an awfully long time to return, and when he does he only has three rabbits, something that definitely shouldn't have taken him this long. Jaskier just rolls his eyes at the lack of subtlety.

Geralt pulls one of the rabbits out of Vesemir's hands and starts prepping it. "I suppose _you_ put him up to this nonsense."

Vesemir doesn't look at him as he starts on his own rabbit. "Well, did you say yes?"

Geralt doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stares at the rabbit as if that will make it skin itself. Then he forces out a, "Yes," and the old Witcher hums.

"Then stop complaining."

Jaskier stifles his laugh, but just barely. Geralt reaches out and shoves him off his log.

* * *

It's dark soon, and Jaskier feels the excitement of the last couple of hours catch up to him all at once. Suddenly he's bone tired, and he crawls into his bedroll without taking anything off but his boots. The fire is low and the air pleasantly warm against his face, and he soon drifts off to the voices of the Witchers talking quietly.

He wakes, at some point in the night, just enough to be aware of a warm weight settling down behind him, and he hums happily when he is, once again, pulled into an embrace.

His fingers rest on a metal-encircled wrist, and he sleeps deeply, and his dreams are filled with golden eyes.

* * *

They don't really talk about it. It just becomes routine: Jaskier will fall asleep on his own, and come morning, Geralt is wrapped about him from behind, holding him close.

Jaskier has never been happier.

They continue towards Ellander, only coming across one small settlement. While there, the Witchers are offered a contract, a drowner infestation the villagers aren't equipped to handle on their own. The offered pay is paltry and Jaskier wants to get offended for half a heartbeat, how _dare_ they offer so little money, but when he looks around, he sees just how poor these people are. Then he feels bad that they're even asking for money at all, but needs must.

To soften the blow, Jaskier stays behind in the village - and not _only_ because Geralt had very sternly told him to, thank you for asking - and offers to play in the little square.

By the time the Witchers return, looking rather more like half-drowned mutts than glorious monster hunters, Jaskier has attracted a crowd and is leading them in a rousing rendition of The Jovial Lass. Geralt, he notes, shakes his head while Vesemir taps his foot to the music, and Jaskier smiles and sings louder.

The Witchers are paid, and all of them offered a place for the night, but Vesemir refuses. "We have abused your generosity enough for today," he tells the elderly man who'd paid them, and the relief that is apparent on the man's face cuts Jaskier to the quick.

He knows he has led a rather sheltered life, even if he knows the dodgier parts of Oxenfurt quite well. He hasn't really seen poverty like this up close, and as they ride away from the settlement, he barely talks, too busy thinking about what he witnessed.

"Something on your mind?" Geralt pulls Roach up beside him, that eternal frown on his lovely face.

Jaskier sighs. "It's nothing," he says, but Geralt just cocks an eyebrow. "Alright, it's something." He huffs. "I'm just... I've never seen people like this."

"Like what?"

"So _poor_. I felt bad that you had to take their money."

A small smile tugs at Geralt's lips. "We didn't."

Now it's Jaskier's turn to frown. "You did. I saw Vesemir take the pouch."

"Hm. But you didn't see him pass it to me, did you?"

No, Jaskier _didn't_ see that, too distracted by the old man offering a place to stay and Vesemir soundly rejecting the offer. "What did you do with it?"

"Hid it in an apple crate by the door."

Comprehension dawns on Jaskier, and he grins. "When you tripped! Oh, how clever!" There's that ridiculous warmth in his chest again, and before he's really thought about it, he reaches out a hand and strokes his fingers along the edge of Geralt's unfairly chiseled jaw. Geralt hums, and smiles, and reaches up and squeezes Jaskier fingers before redirecting them back to Pegasus's reins.

* * *

Ellander is like any town its size: crowded, noisy and smelly. Jaskier plays in a couple of taverns while they're there, the Witchers take some simple contracts, and by the time they move on, their purses are considerably heavier. It's a simple way of living, Jaskier thinks, but he much prefers it to the tediousness of life in Lettenhove.

"Can I ask where we're going? You seem to be heading somewhere," he asks after they've left the town again. They're headed for Ban Gleán next, Vesemir said.

The old Witcher smiles. "We are indeed heading somewhere. There's a keep in the Blue Mountains. Kaer Morhen. Used to be the School of the Wolf, now it's just... home, to us."

He rides ahead a little then, and Geralt pulls up beside Jaskier. It's unseasonably warm and he has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, his bracelets glinting in the sun. Heat pools low in Jaskier's gut at the sight, the alpha side of him inordinately pleased by it. "He's not saying it," Geralt says quietly, "but he wants you to come with us."

Jaskier smiles softly. "I figured." He looks over at Geralt from the corner of his eyes. "What about you?"

The omega cocks an eyebrow. "Can't really court me if you're gods know where, can you?"

Ban Gleán is much the same. Contracts and taverns, shared beds and slightly less awkward baths. Jaskier scours the city's jewellers for more gifts for Geralt, and comes away with a gorgeous silver comb, with a simple knot work design, and silver anklets that could be part of a set with the bracelets. He knows anklets are probably impractical for everyday wear for his Witcher (and when did he start thinking of Geralt as "his"?) but he hopes very much that there will be situations where the omega will be able to wear them unimpeded.

He also sells off two of his court outfits, both of which send the tailor into a bit of a frenzy with the quality of the work and material. The man tries to offer much too little money in return and Jaskier laughs. In the end he only gets half of what his parents paid originally but that is still plenty, so he doesn't mind.

When he makes it back to the inn they planned to stay in tonight, he finds Geralt waiting for him in the common room, nursing a tankard of ale. Jaskier grins and sidles up to the table. "Hello there, handsome stranger. Come here often?"

Geralt rolls his eyes. "Where've you been?"

"Oh, just taking in the sights." He drops into the chair opposite Geralt and steals his tankard; the Witcher scowls at him. "Did you get a room already?"

"Two," Geralt says, then reaches across the table and snatches back his tankard.

"Two?" Huh. That's... new. Maybe they need to do some Witcher-y business without him distracting them. He'll miss Geralt's warmth but, _well_. He will deal with it.

"Hm." Geralt takes a swig, then adds casually, "Vesemir said you're breathing too loudly, he can't sleep with you in the room."

It takes Jaskier way too long to parse the words' meaning. Vesemir will take his own room.

Geralt and Jaskier will be alone.

" _Oh_."

"Hm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Jovial Lass](https://youtu.be/Le2rS3faqRg)


	5. Another Inn

Jaskier follows Geralt up the stairs, his heart beating heavily in his chest. The prospect of sharing a room with just Geralt has his insides fluttering with excitement.

The room the Witcher leads him to looks out over a little square, with a well and an old apple tree, and Jaskier coos over the view for a moment. "It's all terribly quaint, isn't it?" He turns around again and bumps straight into Geralt's chest. "Oh!"

Geralt is smirking down at him, and the fact that he has to look up at the man, even if just a little, still makes Jaskier a bit weak in the knees.

"H-how the hell does a man as large as you sneak around like that, exactly? It's really rather amazing." He's staring, he knows, but Geralt is right there, looking so bloody handsome that Jaskier just can't help himself.

The Witcher cocks an eyebrow and steps closer, backing Jaskier against the window. "Practice," he says, and Jaskier almost whimpers at the intensity of his stare, going hot all over.

"Hm, yes, that makes sense, doesn't it?" He chuckles nervously. Why the fuck is he so _nervous_?

"Jaskier."

"Yes?"

"I want-" There's a hint of hesitation, then Geralt leans even closer. The front of Jaskier's doublet brushes against Geralt's chest. "I want you to kiss me."

A full body shiver goes through Jaskier when their eyes meet. _Fuck_ , he's got it bad. Slowly, he brings his hands up and cups the Witcher's face, tugs him down ever so slightly. "With pleasure," he breathes, and then he presses his lips to Geralt's.

It's supposed to be soft, gentle, tentative, the way first kisses are _meant_ to be.

It's not.

Almost immediately, Geralt pushes him against the window, his hands at Jaskier's waist and Jaskier's arms going around his neck. The glass creaks ominously behind Jaskier but he can't be bothered, too busy _losing his fucking mind_ as the Witcher opens his mouth for him at the same time that he pushes his thigh between Jaskier's legs.

The kiss isn't exactly a battle but there are rather a lot of nips to his lower lip and Geralt keeps _growling_ delightfully and Jaskier is this close to popping a knot if they don't stop _right the fuck now_.

"Geralt," he gasps when the other moves away from his mouth, along his jaw and _fucking cock_ down his throat, "I'm gonna-"

"I know," is the only reply he gets, and then Geralt pushes his thigh up harder, and rumbles, "Ride my leg, little alpha," and Jaskier is fucking done for. He does, it's not like he has a choice, holding onto Geralt's armour as he gasps and moans and rubs himself off against that ridiculously thick thigh, and then Geralt's teeth are at that soft spot beneath his ear and-

Jaskier screams, his nails tearing uselessly at Geralt's armour, and the window cracks behind him as his back arches. Geralt's arms are around him before his orgasm has even stopped, and then the omega throws - actually _throws_ , sweet Melitele - him onto the bed. Jaskier groans and pushes his palm against his still spurting cock, against his knot, his eyes rolling back in his head.

By the time he regains some control over his senses, Geralt is above him, and Jaskier nearly chokes on his tongue. The omega has shed his armour and is only wearing a shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off his bracelets, and Jaskier whimpers. Geralt looks down at him with what Jaskier can only describe as hunger, and then the other reaches up and tugs loose his hair tie. Jaskier bites his lip. "Fuck me," he breathes, and Geralt's smile turns feral.

"Do you want that, little alpha?"

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. Being called that should _definitely_ not make him as as hot under the collar as it does. Well. He's always been an odd bird. " _Yes_ ," he finally gasps when Geralt rocks against him, the hard line of the omega's cock, trapped as it is in his breeches, like a brand against him. "Yes, _please_ , fuck me, Geralt."

The Witcher actually looks surprised for a second, but then he drops down onto his elbows, pushing them together from shoulder to groin. This close, Jaskier couldn't avoid eye contact if he tried, and his chest grows tight and hot with what that gaze makes him feel. Geralt studies him with an almost amused glint in his eyes. "I don't think I will," he rumbles, "not now." Jaskier whimpers again, tries to shift underneath the omega who has completely immobilised him.

"Why not?" Jaskier is not whining, no sir.

Well. Maybe a little.

Geralt smirks, and presses his hips down against Jaskier's; the alpha's eyes roll again at the delicious pressure on his knot. "Because," Geralt says, tilting his head so he can speak directly in Jaskier's ear, "when I ride this pretty arse, I'm going to make you scream so loudly they'll hear you back in fucking Kerack, and if I get us kicked out of this inn, Vesemir is never going to let me hear the end of it."

Fuck. _Fuck_. How can one man be this bloody perfect?

Jaskier shudders, and Geralt nips lightly at that spot under his ear again. "I thought my arse was scrawny," he gasps when Geralt follows his teeth with his tongue, and the omega chuckles.

"I lied," he says, and Jaskier snorts a laugh.

"Naughty." He tries, again, to wriggle a little, and again Geralt holds him in place without any effort at all. Jaskier resigns himself. Instead he turns his head a bit and noses at Geralt's ear. "You got me off, seems only fair that I return the favour, doesn't it?"

Geralt huffs, and tilts his head to give Jaskier more access to his neck and throat - a gesture so full of trust that it takes Jaskier's breath away. There is _no way_ he has earned this in such a short amount of time. Might just be because Geralt could snap him like a twig if he stepped even a toe out of line. "Most alphas don't see it that way," he says, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Well, most alphas are bloody idiots who wouldn't know how to treat omegas better than a slightly more sentient version of their own hands if you hit them in the face with a manual." Geralt chokes on a laugh, and Jaskier grins. "I pride myself on my attentiveness," he says, then gathers his courage and kisses along the other's jaw. A shudder runs through Geralt. "I aim to never leave a lover unsatisfied."

It's a gamble, using that word. It's loaded with implications, but Geralt has accepted his courtship and is currently _baring his throat to him_ , so Jaskier thinks he can afford certain liberties.

"Hm," Geralt says, the sound rumbling in his chest and into Jaskier's. "Cocky."

"Confident," Jaskier counters, "you see, I'm a bit of a tart? Or, used to be, anyway, so I speak from a place of wide and varied experience."

Geralt pulls back at that, one eyebrow cocked. "How old are you again?"

"Twenty-three. Why?" Maybe he'll get an answer to his question concerning Geralt's age now.

Geralt leans down again, nosing along Jaskier's throat, but he can see the hint of a smile before the Witcher's face disappears from his field of vision. The man chuckles. "Because I'd been having sex for _decades_ by the time you were so much as a twinkle in your father's eye," and then he tips his head and brings his mouth back to Jaskier's ear and breathes, " _boy_ ," and Jaskier squirms.

" _Fuck_ , Geralt, are you trying to kill me with the things you say to me? Because I might just die. _Can_ you die from arousal?"

"Jaskier," Geralt rumbles and pushes himself up onto his elbows again to loom over the alpha, "shut up." And then he's kissing him again and Jaskier melts into the mattress.

Again, the kiss grows more heated quickly. There's fire in Jaskier's veins and his senses are filled with Geralt, and Jaskier _wants_. They are wearing far too many clothes in his opinion, and when Geralt starts to slowly roll his hips against Jaskier's, he feels like he might combust any second now. He's still fully dressed, he just came, his knot hasn't even gone down, and the omega is slowly but surely driving him towards the brink again already.

Fuck, the gods are really smiling upon him today.

He makes a valiant effort to not get entirely lost in his head, and instead directs his attention onto Geralt, and oh, that is a _good_ decision.

Geralt's eyes are closed, lips parted as he chases his pleasure, and Jaskier can't help it, he kisses his jaw, licks along the line of it and _fuck_ , Geralt tastes even better than he smells, even after a couple of days of travel with little more than a quick wipe down with a rag. Possibly because of it. He hums against the omega's throat; Geralt's breath hitches. Jaskier wants to say something eloquent, something poetic, but instead he breathes, "Are you gonna come on me, Geralt? Mark me with your scent so everybody will know who I belong to?"

Another of those things alphas aren't supposed to say or do or want. They're supposed to _claim_ , not _be_ claimed, but Jaskier never understood that either. What could be better than to smell like your lover, to proclaim that they own you, that you like that they do? People expect omegas to wear their alpha's marks openly and proudly - why should it be different the other way around?

He wants Geralt to mark him, to claim him, with scent and teeth and any other way the man can think of. Make Jaskier his, body and soul, until the day he dies. It would be the greatest honour Jaskier can think of.

"Do you," Geralt rasps, his thrusts against Jaskier quickening, and Jaskier lifts his eyebrows.

"Do I, what?"

Geralt looks up, opens those golden eyes and looks back at Jaskier with a burning intensity that makes him quiver, and asks, "Do you belong to me?"

Jaskier's mouth is very dry all of a sudden. He can't help but feel that he's standing on a precipice here, that whatever he says now will decide both their fates. Bit melodramatic, really, but he's a poet for crying out loud, he's allowed, nay, expected to be melodramatic. Jaskier licks his lips, swallows around the lump in his throat. "If you'll have me," he says, "I'll be yours, with everything that I am."

Geralt is still moving against him, but his hips stutter at Jaskier's declaration, and then he's kissing Jaskier again, hard and desperate, almost. Jaskier finally gathers his courage and brings his hands, fisted in the sheets until now, up to touch. One splays on Geralt's broad back, so ridiculously solid under it, the other slides into the man's hair. Geralt moans into his mouth, the strokes of his hips against Jaskier almost bruising, and then he's shaking and his teeth are in Jaskier's lower lip, and there's the unmistakable damp heat of his release between them and Jaskier follows right behind, stars popping behind his eyelids.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as he lays there, panting and slowly being crushed beneath Geralt's weight, what good deed has he done to be rewarded like this?

Geralt rolls off of him after a moment, which is both appreciated and not. Jaskier immediately misses the contact, but he doesn't have to miss it for long. The omega throws an arm over his waist and tugs him against his side, and Jaskier sighs happily and settles in.

"That was... very lovely," he murmurs wistfully, and Geralt snorts.

"We rubbed off against each other while fully clothed. Not exactly the height of erotic exploits." His voice turns wry. "Especially to someone with your _wide_ and _varied_ experience."

Jaskier snickers, hiding his face against the omega's chest. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Geralt just shrugs, and then he starts dragging his fingertips up and down Jaskier's back and his train of thought runs away from him there for a minute or three. He mentally shakes himself. "Be that as it may, I thoroughly enjoyed myself, as evidenced by the fact that I just came _twice_ within ten minutes? And I'm pretty sure my knot isn't going to go down for an hour, so you can take your sexual elitism somewhere else, thank you very much."

Geralt's hand goes up, into his hair and then he's gripping it and tilting Jaskier's head up and his lips are so close when he says, "Never said I didn't enjoy it, did I?" And then he's kissing Jaskier once more, plundering his mouth with that really very skilled tongue.

When he lets go again, Jaskier is a boneless mess, making rather pathetic little noises of pleasure, and Geralt pulls him into his arms again.

"Sleep, little alpha," he murmurs against Jaskier's crown, and Jaskier winds a rubbery arm around the man and lets himself drift off, satisfied in more ways than one, in a way he didn't know was even possible.

* * *

When Jaskier wakes, he blinks up at the dark ceiling for a moment, trying to reorient himself. He's in a bed, obviously in an inn. He shifts and makes a face and a noise of disgust - his breeches cling to him in a rather nasty fashion.

There's a snort of amusement from beside him, and when he looks over he finds Geralt beside him, propped up on some pillows, his eyes closed. Everything comes back to Jaskier in a rush, and he frowns. "What, pray tell, is so funny?"

"You," the omega says without opening his eyes. His mouth tilts up on one side, and Jaskier could just watch that for hours. "You reek," he adds, obviously very entertained by Jaskier's predicament.

"And whose fault is that?" He rolls out of bed with another disgusted grunt. "For one, you jumped me the second we walked in here, and two, you told me to go to sleep before I could deal with this." He shrugs off his now very wrinkled doublet, then unbuttons his trousers and shoves them down his legs, forgetting that he's still wearing his boots. He hops around on one leg after the other to push them off, then rids himself of the trousers with a sigh of relief. It's not until he reaches for the ties of his smallclothes that he remembers that Geralt is _right there_ , and his eyes snap up to find the omega watching him.

There's a lit candle on the nightstand next to Geralt, painting his skin in golden hues. He's still wearing his black shirt but he must have changed into different breeches while Jaskier was dead to the world; the leather is gone and replaced with soft black linen. Like this, dressed so leisurely, with his hair undone and clearly relaxed, his beauty is even more breathtaking. One of his legs is stretched out, the other cocked, his foot resting against the opposite calf, and he couldn't look more inviting if he tried. Jaskier wants to crawl between those thighs and bury his face between them.

"You're staring," Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier flushes.

"Well, so were you," he huffs, and again Geralt's lips quirk.

Then his right hand moves, from where it was interlaced with the left atop his stomach, down between his legs. Not to his cock, no, lower, and Jaskier's mouth waters, his soiled smalls forgotten.

The silver of Geralt's bracelet glints in the candlelight then, and all of a sudden Jaskier remembers the anklets and comb. "Oh! I forgot, I got you something!" He hops over his discarded boots and to his pack, smiling to himself at the amused huff coming from Geralt. He digs around in it for a moment before he locates the paper the merchant wrapped them in, then returns to the bed with one. The comb stays put for now.

Geralt just cocks an eyebrow at him. His hand is still between his thighs.

Jaskier kneels besides him and carefully unwraps his gifts. Now that he sees the anklets next to the bracelets, he's half convinced that they actually are a set, or at least from the same manufacturer. They are too similar to be anything else.

The omega draws in a quiet breath. "Jaskier," he says, and the bard looks up at him from beneath his lashes.

"May I, omega?" Geralt nods, and Jaskier smiles.

The anklets are a better fit than the bracelets, surprisingly. What doesn't surprise Jaskier even a little is the almost visceral reaction he has when he sees Geralt wearing them. He looks decadent, in a fashion, as though this was what he was made for, lounging in soft beds and being doted upon. Jaskier shakes his head, shakes the thought away. _Ridiculous_ , he thinks. No, that's not what he wants from Geralt, even if he wants to give him anything the man could ask for.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, running his thumb over the edge of the silver, where it meets skin; Geralt shivers.

"Come here," he rasps, voice quivering, and Jaskier follows. The omega pulls him onto his lap, reels him in with a hand on his neck. This kiss is much gentler, with more emotion than just desire, and Jaskier reaches up and cups Geralt's jaw with both hands. He draws his thumbs over the swell of his cheekbones as he licks into the omega's mouth, and Geralt's free hand moves, down his back and to the swell of his arse, pulling him closer.

"What do you want, darling," Jaskier murmurs, "tell me and I'll give it to you."

Geralt huffs, presses their foreheads together. "I don't understand you," he says quietly, his hand moving under the edge of Jaskier's chemise, his thumb caressing the soft skin at Jaskier's lower back. "What do you see in me? Why... why choose me, when you could surely have your pick of pretty little omegas?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Jaskier answers before he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Geralt's mouth. "You're magnificent, and I'm just... some dumb kid with stars in his eyes." The omega pulls him even closer, and Jaskier sighs happily. "I look at you and want to literally sing your praises. You're beautiful, and kind, and loyal, and I can't believe my luck that you would even give me the time of day, let alone allow me to court you." He runs the tip of his nose against Geralt's with a low chuckle. "I look at you, and I can't decide if I want to bend over and let you fuck me senseless, or if I want to sink to my knees and eat that no doubt beautiful cunt of yours until you crush me between your thighs."

Geralt's breath hitches, and his fingers dig into the meat of his arse. "Do they teach you to talk like this in Oxenfurt?"

"Hmm, it was an extracurricular. Taught at the Rosebud."

Geralt snorts. "Figures."

"I mean it, Geralt," he says softly. "I want... I want to be with you. I have never felt like this with anyone. I've been in love, sure, but..."

Geralt's grip on his neck tightens. "Don't," he says roughly, and he turns his face away.

"Don't, what? Geralt?"

The omega's jaw works, his eyes squeezed shut. "Don't say that," he forces out, "not unless you mean it."

"Geralt," he says, his heart beating heavily in his chest, "I mean it. I have never meant it the way I do now. That's what I wanted to say - I've been in love, but those were flights of fancy. I loved those people for an hour, for a night, a month." He presses a hand to his chest. "This feels so different, like it could..." He cuts himself off, uncertain all of a sudden. They only just _kissed_ for the first time today, he can't say something monumental like that already, can he?

"Like it could, what, Jaskier?" Geralt's voice is so quiet, almost a whisper, and Jaskier's eyes slide closed. Fuck it.

"Like it could be forever."

Geralt makes a hurt noise, somewhere in the back of his throat, and then his lips are on Jaskier's again. The grip on his neck is almost crushing, and Jaskier whimpers and presses ever closer. Geralt's mouth wanders, down Jaskier's jaw, down his throat, and then he's sucking where his pulse throbs and Jaskier's hips jerk entirely without his permission.

"Fuck! Geralt, _don't stop_ , oh gods, please, don't ever stop," he's babbling, he knows he's babbling, but fuck he just can't stop, not when lightning shoots through him every time Geralt sucks harder at his skin, and then there are teeth and- " _Fuck_!" He arches away from Geralt's mouth, coming in his smalls again like he's a boy who just discovered what his dick is for, and he's making a garbled sort of noise as he hangs limply in Geralt's arms, hips twitching against the omega's stomach.

Geralt pulls him upright again, nuzzling his cheek gently. "Now everyone can see that you belong to someone," he murmurs against Jaskier's mouth before he kisses him again, and Jaskier hums his assent.

"I want them to see," he says, shaking as a fresh wave of lust runs through him as his cock is all but crushed against Geralt's abdomen. He slides a trembling hand over Geralt's arm, over his collarbone, until he reaches the silver chain around the Witcher's neck. He cradles the medallion in his palm, and then he says, so quietly, "I want everyone to know I belong to the White Wolf."

Geralt... stares at him. Then he _snorts_ , and the tenderness of the moment dissipates. Jaskier grins, even as he's still weakly coming between them.

They both change into clean clothes - again - when he's done, Geralt shaking his head the whole time and murmuring about, "The fucking White Wolf," and, "Blasted poets," and Jaskier grins and slips out the door on wobbly legs to fetch them something to eat.

And later, when he falls asleep pulled tightly against Geralt's chest, Jaskier murmurs, "My wolf," and receives a kiss to the crown of his head in reply.


	6. The Road, Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: attempted sexual assault, physical assault

Vesemir greets them the next day with an exaggerated sniff and a pointed look at Jaskier's neck. "You could wear signs around your necks, would be subtler," he says with a smirk, and Geralt rolls his eyes while Jaskier grins into his porridge.

"I promise I love you too, old man," he says, and Geralt chokes on his ale, as Vesemir laughs and slaps Jaskier on the back so hard he almost lands face first in his bowl.

From Ban Gleán they aim straight for Ard Carraigh, he's told as they saddle up the horses, and from there it's another week or so to Kaer Morhen.

"Should be easy, this time of year," Geralt says, watching the clouds. "We usually go back much later, and the pass can be dangerous even for us then."

Jaskier hums, shifting in Pegasus's saddle. "Yes, yes, rub it in how frail and vulnerable I am." He softens the remark with a wink, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

Now that they're no longer running from his no doubt incensed parents, their pace has slowed somewhat, which suits Jaskier just fine, especially now that he's allowed to kiss and touch and hold. They spend _quite_ a bit of time doing that when they've made camp, much to Vesemir's (almost certainly fake) chagrin.

"Gods give me strength, why did I encourage this?"

"Because you love Geralt and want him to be happy," Jaskier says cheerily from where he's leaning against a log, Geralt's head in his lap. He's not entirely sure if the Witcher is even awake any more, his breathing so slow and even, and he's not objecting to the fact that Jaskier is currently braiding his hair, but he doesn't react to Vesemir's barb, so who knows.

The old Witcher huffs a laugh. "You're a menace, bard," he says, "I have no idea what the pup sees in you."

Jaskier looks down at the man in his lap. His lips are tilted up on one side; not asleep, then. Jaskier smiles, very aware of just how smitten he must look. "That makes two of us."

* * *

They've just crossed the Liksela when it happens. Vesemir had been telling Jaskier a little about the other wolf Witchers, Eskel and Lambert, when he falls silent mid-sentence, body going taut and alert. On Jaskier's other side, Geralt does the same. If they were actual wolves, their ears would be pricked up, swiveling to locate a noise.

There's a scream, a beastial cry unlike anything Jaskier has ever heard. Under him, Pegasus throws his head, eyes wide all of a sudden.

The Witchers slide off their horses and draw their swords, the silver, Jaskier notes. As Vesemir's eyes scan the sky, Geralt takes hold of Pegasus's reins.

"Jaskier, listen closely: get into the woods, thickest tree cover you can find. Do _not_ come out before we tell you."

"What's going on, Geralt?" His voice shakes. There's a monster coming, that much is clear.

"A wyvern," Vesemir throws over his shoulder, attention still on the sky. "Go, boy, now," and Jaskier obeys.

He spurs Pegasus into a gallop, relieved when he sees Roach and Thistle, Vesemir's horse, follow. The wood is dark and ominous as they crash through the undergrowth but that's to his advantage, surely. Wyverns are flying creatures who pluck their prey from the ground mid-flight, so the trees ought to provide ample cover.

Jaskier doesn't stop until he can't see the edge of the forest any more. He can hear the fight, the wyvern screaming, the flapping of its great wings, the clang of swords. His heart thunders in his chest, and he slides off of Pegasus's back, the horse's nervous dancing threatening to unseat him with the way his attention is divided. The other horses aren't nearly as fidgety, used to the exploits of their owners as they are, and Jaskier ties Pegasus to a tree and tries to calm his racing heart and heavy breathing. The fight seems to drag on forever, and all Jaskier wants is to go and watch, but Geralt told him to stay until he comes for him, and so stay he will.

He fetches his lute and plops himself down at the foot of a tree, cushioned by the moss growing there, and practices some finger placements. No use sitting around doing nothing while he waits, and it's been a while since he's been alone, since he had time to just get some of the basics down again.

A branch breaks somewhere behind him, but Jaskier pays it no mind. It's a forest, it's probably just a deer or something harmless. Probably. Hopefully.

He continues with his practice, humming quietly to himself, and then there's a knife at his throat.

"What have we here, then," a man says from behind him. Jaskier can smell weeks' old sweat and bad breath, and his mouth twists.

"J-just a bard, good sir," he says softly, "just passing through. I'll be out of your hair immediately if my presence bothers you." _Fuck_ , he's dead, he's going to _die_ here, stabbed by some filthy bandits while Geralt is just a stone's throw away fighting for his life-

"What's a bard doing all alone in a forest, with three horses?" The man grabs Jaskier by the back of his doublet and hauls him to his feet; the lute slides out of his grip.

"They're- pack horses. I have way too much stuff," he babbles, laughs. Two more men, brawny and dirty, and a woman, slightly less filthy but just as brawny, step into his field of vision, grinning.

"Pack horses, sure. With saddles."

The woman breathes in deeply, then grins. "Would you believe it, boy's an alpha!" She comes closer, takes his chin between thumb and her fingers to tilt his face this way and that. The knife scrapes against his throat. Her eyes are very pale. Mean. "Much too pretty for an alpha, like a flower with all these nice silks," she sneers, and when Jaskier sucks in a breath, he realises that she, too, is an alpha. "What do you say, boys, shall we make him sing for us?"

Ooh, he does _not_ like where this is going, not at all.

"What's wrong with his neck," one of the men asks, squinting in the dim light of the woods. "You been mauled or somethin'?"

Uproarious laughter follows the question, and Jaskier feels himself grow hot. "None of your fucking business," he snarls, and the bandits only laugh harder at that. The knife digs into his throat; it's surprisingly dull.

"Ooh, the little flower's got teeth," the woman laughs, and he's beginning to suspect that she's the leader of this little outfit.

"Listen," he says, tries to reason, "I have some money. I'll give you that and be gone from your sight, and-"

Her hand is fisted in his doublet, and she snarls, her grip on his chin tightening. She's just as tall as him, and she might actually be a bit broader than him in the shoulders. "I have a better idea, boy," she hisses. "We're gonna have us a good time with you, and then we'll take all of your money, and your horses, and your pretty clothes, and never waste another thought on you ever again. How's that?"

The man behind him pushes him to his knees, and the woman slides her hand into his hair, gripping hard. Jaskier's eyes water. "Go fuck yourself," he hisses, and the woman laughs, her free hand unbuckling her belt.

"Oh no, sweet cheeks, we'll fuck _you_ ," she purrs, hand going to the laces of her trousers. He can smell her already, the spicy scent of lust on her unwashed body a truly nauseating combination. She's staring down at him with a mean glint in her eyes. "We're gonna find out how well this bird can sing, won't we, boys?"

There's a slick sound from behind her, then another, then a shout as the woman's hand disappears from his hair. She spins around with a snarl, and Jaskier is yanked back by the man behind him.

Geralt and Vesemir have appeared from the gloom of the forest, both of them covered in blood and ichor, their swords gleaming in stray rays of sunshine breaking through the treetops. The two men lie dead at their feet.

Geralt looks absolutely feral, his lips curled away from his teeth, his chest heaving. "That's _my mate_ ," he snarls, and Jaskier's heart does an odd little twisty thing in his chest.

The woman's eyes flicker to Jaskier for a second, and then she laughs. " _That's_ your omega, little flower? No wonder your neck looks like something attacked you, that one's a _beast_!" She cackles, and Geralt goes taut all over.

Then he's moving, and next thing Jaskier knows, the woman's headless body collapses beside him.

The man behind him panics. He must realise that he won't make it out of here alive, and he grabs Jaskier's hair, the hand with the knife moving away from his throat, and then there is _painpain **pain**_ lancing up Jaskier's side, and the world tilts sideways as the man pushes him away from him. Jaskier falls. There's damp moss under his cheek, and his back is on fire. He can hear Geralt roar and Vesemir yell something, and then everything goes dark.

* * *

Jaskier comes back to consciousness slowly, in fits and starts.

Light, and pain.

Pain, _pain_ , **pain**.

Light, a gentle hand on his cheek. Pain.

"Jaskier, can you hear me?"

A soft touch against his forehead.

Darkness. Light. Pain. Darkness.

"Jaskier."

He blinks open his eyes. "Wh-why is it so fucking _bright_?"

Geralt, above him, blocking out the sun. The light makes a halo of his hair.

"Oh, hello. Have you always been this beautiful?" He feels drunk. "Am I drunk?"

Geralt's mouth twitches. "No, but maybe a bit high."

"Where are we?" He tries to sit up and- oh _fuck_ , **ow** , bad idea, really fucking bad idea. Geralt pushes him down again gently.

"At the edge of the forest." His face is carefully neutral, and Jaskier grimaces.

"What happened? I don't remember all that much, if I'm to be honest."

"Bastard stabbed you," Vesemir says as he comes into view. "You're lucky he missed your kidney."

Jaskier squirms a little and, again, immediately regrets it. " _This_ is what being lucky feels like?"

Geralt nods grimly. "The knife was dull. He had to..." He presses his lips together tightly, then continues, "He had to work for it. Tore you up pretty badly." He pushes closer, sits beside Jaskier properly now. Jaskier reaches for his hand, entwines their fingers; Geralt hums.

"Any lasting damage?"

"A nasty scar, but you'll be fine." Vesemir sits down on his bedroll. There's a cold fireplace, and when Jaskier looks around, he realises the campsite looks a couple of days old.

"How long..."

Geralt's fingers tighten around his. "Three days."

"Oh. That's- Hm." Three days unconscious, injured. _Fuck_. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and Vesemir cocks an eyebrow. Geralt growls.

"What do you think _you_ have to apologise for, boy?"

"I keep... I keep slowing you down. You have to look after me, protect me, and I just-" He stares at his feet, and then he bursts into tears. He sobs into his hand, and then Geralt's arm is around his shoulder and he pulls him against his chest. Jaskier can't stop crying, not for a long time, and Geralt strokes his back and lets him.

When his tears have dried up, he turns his head, looks over at Vesemir. The old wolf has a soft look about him. "You think this is the first time we've been delayed because of an injury? It doesn't matter, Jaskier. All that matters is that you're alive."

Geralt slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jaskier's neck, scratching softly, and he can feel the tension drain out of him slowly. He sniffles. "If you're sure."

Vesemir rolls his eyes. "Boy, I'm nearly three hundred years old, if you can't trust my judgment, whose can you trust?" And with that, he heaves himself to his feet and disappears into the trees, to check the snares.

Jaskier stares after him. "Three... _hundred_?"

"Hm." Geralt nuzzles the top of his head, and his arm tightens around Jaskier. "I thought..."

He rubs his cheek against Geralt's chest, breathes in his scent. "Thought what?"

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathes, "just after I found you."

"You said..." Jaskier swallows drily. "You called me your mate," he says softly, and Geralt's breath hitches. "Did you mean that?"

A long, tense silence, then, so quietly Jaskier can barely hear it, "Yes."

"Oh." Jaskier can feel his heartbeat in his ears. "I... I don't know what to say." Geralt, bless his soul, apparently chooses to misinterpret that _entirely_. He lets go of Jaskier and pushes himself back, face blank. Jaskier catches on and with a muttered, "Oh no, you don't," grabs the front of his shirt and keeps him in place.

Geralt is shaking. "I must have misunderstood your intentions," he says, voice flat, and Jaskier's heart breaks. What must Geralt's experiences have been like for him to guard himself so closely, and to wilfully misunderstand things so completely?

"No, you didn't," Jaskier says, ignoring the sharp pain in his back as he sits up. "I want- I _want_ that, Geralt, do you think I would want to court you if I didn't want to also mate you? I'm-" He chuckles. "I just didn't expect you to feel the same way. Not to this extent." He reaches up and cups Geralt's cheek in his palm; the Witcher's eyes flutter. "I'm sorry I scared you," he says softly, and then Geralt is on him, kissing him like his life depends on it, and Jaskier laughs into the kiss.

They stay at the edge of the forest three more days, until Jaskier can move without fresh pain lancing through him. Geralt is practically attached to him at the hip the entire time, and now Vesemir doesn't comment. Sometimes Jaskier thinks he's about to say something snarky, like when he returns from refilling their water skins and finds Geralt in the exact same spot he's been in all day - in the crook of Jaskier's arm, his face pressed against the bard's ribs - but then the old man's face softens and he busies himself with something else.

By the time Vesemir declares him healed enough to continue their travels, the temperature has dropped noticeably. It's well into autumn now.

"What would you normally do at this time of year?" The road is wide enough for the three of them to ride side by side, and Jaskier is flanked by the Witchers. Both of them are noticeably more cautious now.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. "Work. Contracts, until later in the year."

"I usually stay in Kaer Morhen these days," Vesemir adds. "It was really coincidence that we even met in the first place."

There's a sudden lump in Jaskier's throat. "That... sounds very lonely," he says quietly.

Neither of the wolves says anything to that, and Jaskier decides then and there that he will never allow Geralt to feel that way again. Not if he has any say in the matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


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